


A Trophy Highly Prized

by ci5mates



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ci5mates/pseuds/ci5mates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie and Doyle find themselves unwittingly drawn into a man hunt, armed with only their wits, their skills and each other to rely on for their very survival.  Meanwhile Cowley is racing to to put the pieces together before he loses his best team to a madman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Trophy Highly Prized

A Trophy Highly Prized 

 

0930 hours 11th November 1983 

CI5 Headquarters, London

George Cowley was agitated. Far too restless to sit so he stood at his office window and loosened his tie while he watched storm clouds roll in, hoping like hell it wasn’t an ominous sign. Usually he paid little heed to such follies but today he was ripe for it, a deep-seated fear for two of his men had unsettled him. Removing his glasses, he massaged his brow and sighed with the weariness of a man who hadn't been to bed. He shivered as rain drops began pinging against the glass. How had his best team been snatched without so much as a cry for help or a drop of blood spilled? There had been no sign of a struggle or anything else untoward and the abandoned Capri was the only indication they’d even been at the obbo location. 

Murray and his team had finished examining the scene in the wee early hours but they’d not found anything of value, not even a wayward fingerprint, it was a professional job alright. 

A door-knock of the nearby residents revealed a mobile snack van had been set up in a quiet back street, coincidentally very close to where the Capri had been found, but as yet the van hadn't been identified and an APB of its description ensured every copper in London was out looking for it. Not one to believe in coincidences, his gut told him the missing agents and the unidentified van were connected.

Damn those boys, why them and why now?

Adding to his frustration, the gun-running investigation they had been working on had to be abandoned as resources were diverted to the search. The Minister had not been impressed; _'incompetent...'_ was the last word he heard yelled down the phone line as he calmly replaced the receiver. “Good day Minister."

The target of the arms investigation hadn’t even been aware of CI5’s interest in his activities and he was quickly ruled out as a suspect in the disappearance of his men which, frustratingly, left no obvious lines of inquiry. 

Snitches were rousted, alerts sent out and a list of recent prisoner releases were urgently called for but so far nothing promising had turned up, not so much as a sniff. Even Marg Harper was paid a visit on the off-chance she’d been privy to something useful and although she conceded she hadn’t, she promised to send out feelers immediately. According to Murphy she'd been rather distressed on hearing that _her Ray_ was missing in action, even extending her concern to _that lout partner of his._

More than twelve hours had past since 4.5 and 3.7 had last checked in and he wondered if he should expand his search off shore considering the analysis of local intelligence holdings had failed to show anything remotely interesting. Decision made, he reached for the intercom, “Betty, when you have a minute.”

He fingered the frame of his spectacles while he waited, pondering a myriad of possibilities as he fought to stay awake but despite his efforts, his uncooperative eye lids drooped and his mind drifted into a twilight world. 

He flinched suddenly when Betty cleared her throat, embarrassed at being caught nodding off at his desk. Promptly re-seating his glasses, he glanced up through the thick lenses at her familiar face. “Our international holdings quick as you can, credible threats only, back two months.”

Betty straightened. “Yes sir, I’ll gather them straight away. Can I ask…” She paused, “Does this have anything to do with 3.7 and 4.5?” A small catch in her voice gave rise to a nervous cough.

“Aye,” he replied reverently, “I hope I can find the answer in those files and I hope to God we're not too late.”

Her bereft expression confirmed her fondness for the missing men and he wondered if perhaps he should have been more tactful, more sensitive, but she understood the cold, hard reality of life in CI5, just as he did.

*****

With his chin resting uncomfortably on his chest and his curls covering his shuttered eyes, it took a while for Doyle to realise he was actually awake and not in the throes of a bad dream. His breathing was calm and even but gradually, as awareness crept up, fear caught in his throat. He was tied-tied and drugged if the bitter taste in his mouth was any indication and with no idea of who had restrained him or why, he forced himself to hold the uncomfortable position for a bit longer, feigning unconsciousness. If only he could control his thudding heart he might be able to pull it off. Bound firmly to a chair, he covertly flexed his muscles but found no leeway in his restraints.

Countless questions drifted through his sluggish mind but his immediate memory stayed frustratingly out of reach. His thoughts kept coming back to his partner, had Bodie been with him when he’d been snatched? He could only assume he had been which begged the question, where the hell was Bodie now? 

Slowly but surely Macklin’s advice found its way through the fuzziness inside his skull, _regulate your breathing, slow your heart, keep your wits, and above all, don’t panic._ Bleeding bloody obvious but in a crisis easily forgotten, so he forced himself to keep calm as his drug-induced grogginess dissipated, turning his attention to what he could gather from his surroundings without the use of his sight. The ground under-foot felt uneven but hard, man-made most likely, no breeze either so definitely indoors then. A musty blend of odours: rubber, canvas and the tang of leather mingled in his nostrils but the clues brought him no closer to pinpointing his location. The silence added to his confusion, no birds chirping, no passing traffic, no voices, nothing, it felt like an air-locked chamber isolated from the outside world.

To distract himself, he turned his focus inward, easily diagnosing dehydration made obvious by his dry mouth and pounding head but he felt no other pain apart from a horribly stiff neck caused by his awkward position. His senses were tingling though, someone was nearby and it took all his self-control to keep up the ruse. 

He cast his mind back, working his memory, massaging it until finally some swirling images solidified into something more tangible. It was a stake-out, he and Bodie had been on a stake-out in a place north of London. They'd been secreted in a garden shed keeping watch on a gunrunner’s bolthole. It was coming back to him now, it had been bitterly cold and the small wooden building had been peppered with gaps that sucked the wind through like a sieve so after a hasty round of rock, paper, scissors Bodie had left in pursuit of hot beverages. 

“Nectar of the Gods,” Bodie had murmured as he'd slurped the steaming hot tea from a polystyrene cup. Doyle remembered being impressed when Bodie had returned in record time having discovered a convenient takeaway van nearby. The piping hot tea and soggy vinegar-soaked chips were delivered with a smug grin and a paper serviette. They’d both been surprised at finding a vendor so close but now Doyle knew for sure it had been a set-up, too bloody convenient by half. His last conscious memory was the steaming hot liquid burning his lips and his partner's praise of the humble brew.

His kidnappers were well informed, had to be, it’d hadn't been a random snatch, no way: he’d been targeted alright. Whoever it was knew where he’d be and knew his and Bodie's habits, right down to their routine of ducking out for provisions. But why? On the face of it, his captors didn’t mean any serious harm, not yet anyway - why go to the trouble of using drugs, why the subterfuge? His concern for Bodie was growing, had his drink been spiked too? Had he been captured or worse?

Anxiety got the better of him and he cracked one eye open, then the other, hoping his movement would be subtle enough not to be noticed by anyone watching. Without lifting his head he scanned the small room through slitted eyes. There wasn’t much light, a single bulb casting dark shadows, but he could see stone walls and paved floor well enough. Almost immediately thought his attention was drawn to the lifeless figure secured to a chair directly opposite. Bodie.

Once he’d established they were alone, he studied his partner across the divide, trying to keep a lid on his fury. Bodie looked terrible despite having no obvious wounds or pooling blood. His head was tilted back at an awkward angle forcing his throat taut and the veins in his neck to pop. Unconscious or asleep? Doyle couldn't tell. Bodie's eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted but it was his paler than usual skin tone and the beading sweat on his face that had Doyle most worried.

Then, without warning, a distinctively South African voice boomed out over a speaker which hung from the ceiling of the windowless room. Doyle flinched, his deception was over. 

“Bravo, Mr Doyle. I see you have decided to join us.”

Doyle lifted his head and glared straight into the surveillance camera located alongside the speaker. “Who are you? Where are we?” he demanded, no longer bothering to conceal his struggle to break free.

“All in good time, Mr Doyle. If I were you I’d save my energy, you’re going to need it. When your colleague decides to join us I’ll enlighten you both, so sit tight until then.”

The tone was arrogant. 

“Who the hell are you?”

“You can call me Laaine, that’s African for master; rest assured I am yours.”

Doyle was even more baffled after this brief interaction. Scanning the room for an escape route, his eyes fell on a wooden trestle, the only piece of furniture in the room aside from the chairs he and Bodie were tied to. Along its length was an assortment of random items including neatly folded Army fatigues and two pair of military-style hiking boots. 

Doyle mulled over the situation as the drug continued to dissipate. He felt much more alert now despite his lingering headache but the speed of his own recovery made him worry about how much of the sedative Bodie had consumed.

“Bodie, psst, Bodie, can you hear me?”

His partner remained unresponsive so there was little he could do other than contemplate their escape.

In no time at all an explanation sprung to mind. The bindings were not so tight as to cut the circulation, no blood had been spilled and no demands had been made - yet. It was all very strange, but throw in a recent bollocking about how lax the squad had become and it all began to make sense. This was a test, something Cowley had dreamed up with Macklin no doubt. The bastards 'ill be watching on monitors, judging and testing our reactions. Well, they’ve gone too bloody far this time, no matter what the fine print says, George Cowley can’t get away with this. But before he could dream up a tirade that would likely result in his dismissal, Bodie began to stir with a frown marring his face. 

“Bodie, look at me; come on mate, open your eyes.”

The moment they fluttered open Doyle knew Bodie was in trouble; his movement was stifled by more than just the restraints pinning his arms, the right side of his upper body was unnaturally distorted.

“Where's it hurt?”

Bodie coughed, opening and closed his mouth, working his tongue to generate moisture.

“Shoulder,” he croaked as he flexed his upper body and blanched. “Where the hell are we?”

“We're about to find out, and just so you know, we’re being watched.” Doyle looked up to the camera, “You've got our attention, now what the hell is going on?”

The male voice turned almost jovial. “The feisty one, eh? Living up to expectations already, Mr Doyle but I suggest you take a leaf out of Mr Bodie's book and remain calm.” The tone turned belligerent, “Listen carefully because I will not repeat myself and _nothing_ I have to say is negotiable.”

Bodie continued to work his jaw while Doyle sat wide-eyed, shaking with anger, shocked that this man evidently had information from their file, reinforcing his theory that Cowley was behind it, whatever _it_ was.

“Gentlemen, you have been selected for your exceptional qualities, fitness, cunning, bravery, aptitude and so on. You're touted to be the best of the best in Major Cowley’s organisation, high praise for an ex-Detective Constable and an ex-Soldier.”

“Cowley’s behind this,” Doyle whispered furiously but he was abruptly silenced.

“Quiet! No talking!” the voice was impatient. “I have a number of wealthy clients who are looking for something new and exciting. Experienced hunters who are bored stalking lions and rhinos in the heat and dust so I expect you two fine specimens will give them a run for their money. Gentlemen, you should be honoured to be the first European participants in my exclusive man-hunt.”

Doyle’s penny dropped along with his gaping mouth. “They intend to hunt us? We’re their prey?” he said incredulously, realising with frightening clarity that this couldn’t possibly be a training exercise conjured up by Cowley.

Bodie nodded dispassionately while Doyle immediately began speculating about how long they’d been unconscious, questioning how far they had been moved from north London. Were they even in England? Christ, surely they hadn't been flown to Africa?

“I see you have quickly grasped the nature of the game my friends but your apprehension is a little premature; you haven’t heard the rules yet.”

“Rules, there are rules to this madness?” Doyle glared at the faceless microphone and Bodie sat quietly with his eyes closed.

“My clients want a challenge and I'm sure you'll oblige so long as I give you a sporting chance. There needs to be a carrot in it for you, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

The voice continued, their response immaterial it seemed, “When I say so, you will be released with an hour head start. You can work together or separate, the choice is yours.”

It was a moot point Doyle decided, they’d be staying together, they were Cowley’s ‘A’ team. They were good, his best, but would his best be good enough? 

“You’ll note, gentlemen, there are ten items on the table, each would be of some value to you in the field. I'm going to allow you to choose four to put in the rucksack there, a sign of my goodwill. The clothing and boots are yours in addition so I suggest you take the opportunity to prepare yourselves.”

Doyle pondered the items on offer but defaulted to his partner, if Bodie's drunken bar stories were even remotely true, he was far more qualified to decide which to choose.

The voice resumed, dragging their attention back to the speaker, “Four players, gentlemen, all vying for a considerable monetary prize but, knowing these competitors as I do, it will be the honour which will make the competition fierce. I’m sure the trophy will be highly prized. I guarantee it will be an interesting talking point.”

An evil laugh filled the room causing Doyle’s imagination to run wild with sickening possibilities.

“And here’s the clincher, my friends: there's a substantial bonus to any player good enough to take both your scalps. Makes things a little more...interesting, don’t you think?” 

The orator paused, as if waiting for an volley of abuse, but there was no response from the agents, the scheme too outrageous to elicit a reply. 

“In the event you survive 48 hours, you will have earned your freedom.”

“Big of you,” Bodie scowled.

Doyle yelled into the camera, “This is insane, you won’t get away with it.”

“Save it, Doyle,” Bodie interrupted, resigned to their fate, “you’re wasting your breath.”

*****

It was now fifteen hours since 3.7 and 4.5 had last been in contact which was a lifetime in this game. Cowley knew men could be broken in a fraction of that time by a person with the right skills, he knew this because he possessed those skills himself. He wasn’t proud of it but desperate times called for desperate measures. His stomach churned as he contemplated the possibilities.

Foreign diplomats had been canvassed and were adamant their respective countries had nothing to do with his agents’ disappearance. It wasn’t conclusive of course but he could do little more than accept their denials on face value until evidence indicated otherwise. 

Borders had been sewn up tight and the police were on alert but professionals like this weren’t prone to making the kind of mistakes that drew attention. The lack of chatter on the grapevine drew him to an inevitable conclusion. The harsh reality of the situation was that his men were likely dead, killed for what they knew or what they refused to give up. Images of dead soldiers flooded into his mind as they always did whenever things were grim, past visions he couldn’t escape, indelibly imprinted on his memory and never far from the surface. Brutal, violent death was all too common in this line of work but seeing the names of men under his command etched in granite saddened him. There’d be no grand funerals, no gratitude from those they protected, just a quiet goodbye from trusted mates. “Damn,” he said as he slapped his fist hard against his thigh, this melancholy wasn’t helping, maybe, just maybe, they were still alive.

He had perused the dossiers Betty had gathered, emerging crime trends, the birth of terrorist organisations and the usual political unrest. Much of it was run of the mill, although a couple stood out, an Interpol alert about a Greek Nationalist group and the CIA warning about a Mafia organisation, but nothing that he hadn’t seen before, except one. One disturbing report that created a sinking feeling in his gut. The proposal had its origins in South Africa, a game for wealthy safari hunters who wanted the ultimate in entertainment, live human targets. 

Cowley stared at the report, removed his glasses and tapped them thoughtfully on his temple as he digested the implications. Whoever was wealthy enough, crazy enough and sadistic enough to concoct such a thing would no doubt be catering to a clientele who were very good at their sport which meant their prey would have to be exceptional in order to present a challenge. That bad feeling began to creep right over him as he sat back and contemplated.

He trained his men to be the best, they had to be to survive the job they did. Could it be that their reputation had spread far enough that this madman had taken notice? The thought of Bodie and Doyle being used as gun fodder enraged him. Had they been singled out for their skills and their fitness and if so, why come to Britain to source prey? Why did this madman not confine his pursuits to his own country? The disturbing answer came immediately…because he had exhausted his supply of suitable candidates. 

The South African file was marked ‘credible’ but the information was yet to be validated and the source had not been disclosed but he felt strongly enough to pursue it further. Powerful strings had been pulled in the house of power and favours were cashed up in exchange for urgent inquiries in South Africa but until there was confirmation it was just a theory. His gut was rarely wrong but he had to base his official response on facts, cold hard facts, and at this point he had none.

The overflowing correspondence basket perched on the edge of his desk had to be dealt with, crisis or not, so he worked dutifully in his office while he waited for his international sources to get back to him. His stomach clenched when he realised the expense chit in his hand belonged to 3.7. He quickly stamped it ‘approved’ without his usual thorough scrutiny and couldn’t help but wonder if it had been a wasted exercise. His thoughts began to drift with fatigue and just as he felt his eyelids droop, Betty entered with a steaming pot of tea and buttery toast. Infinitely grateful, he smiled, appreciating her good sense of timing. It had been a long while since he’d pulled an all-nighter but there had been urgent inquiries that couldn’t wait until daylight. No longer in his prime, shifts like this were slowly killing him but now was not the time to contemplate his personal needs as he sugared his tea, he had agents to find.

The shrill bell on his phone made him flinch.

“Cowley.”

“Hello George, this is Marg, Marg Harper. I have some information.”

“Yes, do go on.”

“Not over the phone, you never know who is listening. St Paul’s steps, one hour, only you George, I will trust only you. If my information is right my Ray and that partner of his are in it up to their necks.”

*****

As Doyle digested the implication of what they faced, he heard the sound of a key sliding into the door lock. Bodie looked up in response to the noise and they exchanged glances. The door swung open and two confident army types strode in, one carrying a semi-automatic handgun like he was born with it, the other a sizable double-edged blade. Both wore balaclavas but what skin was visible was golden brown suggesting they spent a significant amount of time close to the equator. 

Doyle tensed as they moved forward but it was the intruders who were acting like they were approaching a pair of Bengal tigers. His eyes darted between the two men, assessing, watching for a sign of weakness but there was none.

“Easy, let’s all stay relaxed, shall we?” Bodie said calmly.

“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else, mate.” Doyle replied as the two intruders separated.

When the pistol was positioned at Bodie’s head Doyle instinctively understood what was going to happen. He was about to be released from his restraints and the weapon trained on his partner would ensure his complete cooperation. The second male handled the knife like an expert, slicing the ties with little effort and no painful mistakes. Words were redundant; all four men were professionals, intuitively understanding how the scene would play out if they all behaved. Doyle remained seated when the weapon was trained on him while Bodie’s bonds were cut. He winced when Bodie cried out as his arms were released but neither made any rash moves and the two intruders backed slowly out of the room, locking the door behind them, mission accomplished it seemed.

With the tension of the past few minutes over, Doyle flexed and stretched his stiff muscles before tentatively standing and when no-one barked instructions at him, he moved across to Bodie who was had remained seated gingerly supporting his right arm. 

Mindful of being overheard, Doyle squatted alongside his partner and placed his hand on Bodie's uninjured shoulder. “What the hell happened to you?” 

Bodie turned even paler if it were possible and put his head down between his knees and retched. He had very little to expel but a small amount of dark liquid dribbled to the floor. “Easy mate,” Doyle whispered as he looked up at the camera.

Bodie wiped his mouth with the back of his shaky hand and flopped breathlessly back against the chair. 

“My head’s spinning and that’s what’s making me queasy, it’ll pass, I’m all right, Doyle. You can drop the mother hen act.”

“Remember anything?” Doyle asked, ignoring the snipe.

“Not much, just the snack van, the bitch who served me and the sweetness of the tea. I saw you go down and tried to stop you falling but by then my coordination was off too. I stumbled and speared into the wall, felt the shoulder go. Don't remember what happened after that. It’s dislocated.”

“You sure?”

“Yes I’m bloody sure; it’s not the first time its come out,” Bodie replied tetchily.

“Let me try to put it back in.” 

“Not here, not with an audience you’re not.”

“But…”

“Shut up Ray and listen. When we're released, we're spliting up.”

Doyle shook his head covertly, mindful of the camera above but before he could argue the point Bodie continued, “You’ll do better on your own; you can come back for me later, I’ll slow you down with this shoulder.”

“Can’t do this without you mate, this is your speciality, remember? You’re the survival expert, I need you just as much as you need me. You wouldn’t manage an hour on your own and if by chance I did get out alive I’d be coming back for a body recovery. It’s not happening,” he said firmly, leaving his partner in no doubt that he meant it.

Doyle could feel the sweat and the tremors through Bodie's thin polo-neck top. “We're not having this conversation again.”

Bodie closed his eyes and nodded, agreeing to an uneasy truce. 

*****

The small storage closet made an ideal viewing room, however when Laaine ushered all four competitors inside, he knew they weren’t keen on the intimacy. 

"I will keep this short. I want you all to have the same briefing, no allegations of favouritism, eh?” 

They soon forgot their discomfort as they focused on a flickering screen monitoring the two men in the basement. It was going to be their only opportunity to study their targets at such close quarters; next time they saw them would be through their crosshairs. 

The four participants had encountered each other before; they weren’t strangers, nor were they friends. 

Ferdie De Jong was born and bred in Mozambique, a retired business man who prided himself on his skill with a long-bore rifle. Stuffed taxidermy animals and leopard-skin rugs decorated his villa, all proudly slain by his own hand. Laaine knew the prize money wasn’t Ferdie’s lure, the thrill of the hunt and the anticipation of a kill was all the motivation he needed. For him, the ten thousand pound entry fee, was play money.

Touching shoulders with Ferdie was Hank Johnson Jnr, a powerful American adventurer and small Texas airline owner, a fleet he’d inherited from daddy when he passed away unexpectedly. Foul play was suspected but Hank never faced court, it was a close thing by all accounts. Described by hunting companions as an arrogant nationalist, he was full of his own self-worth; a perfectionist whose brutality was well known following reports he’d shot and killed a young black skinner for damaging one of his pelts. 

Pressed up against Hank Jnr was Jack Overmeyer who, unbeknown to the others, was on the verge of bankruptcy, a juicy bit of scandal that Laaine kept close to his chest. Some discreet delving prior to finalising the guest list revealed Jack’s dire financial affairs but he was able to scrape together the entrance fee so he was in. Laaine had no doubt Jack would play dirty; that pot of gold was his future. Nothing wrong with a bit of desperation, it would likely add some spice to the game.

Eva Kessling, a white South African woman was the final contestant. A fit, tanned 48-year-old-woman with skin as tough as a rhino’s hide. She was a ruthless killer as brutal as any man she’d ever hunted with. She was a product of her upbringing, the only child of a cruel father. She had no qualms about slaughtering any living creature even a pregnant elephant or a leopard with a cub at foot; he knew, he had witnessed both. She was just as keen as the men to bag a scalp and he knew she would have no compunction about putting a round through the hearts of these men. A sentimentalist she was not. 

The hunters paid close attention as he revealed the nature and habits of their prey as was customary before any safari. The subjects were excluded of course; he didn’t want them to know quite how well informed he was.

He zoomed the camera in until the captives filled the screen. “I will start with Raymond Doyle, the subject who’s standing. He’s in superb condition, fit, strong, athletic.” He cleared his throat and proceeded to read from his handwritten notes using a small pen light. “Ex-Detective Constable from the Metropolitan Police, age 32. Served his last four years in the Met as a drug squad Detective. His precious integrity did him no favours. He was ostracised for giving evidence against corrupt senior officers and he suffered dearly; snitches aren’t popular in the force and it was at this point he was recruited into CI5. He’s known for challenging his superiors, has a mind like a steel trap and is subject to fits of rage. He’s also a crack marksman and a capable street fighter. Shot in the chest by a political extremist a couple of years back; he survived and got himself back to full operational fitness, he’s one tough son of a bitch. Don’t let his appearance fool you.”

Hank was unimpressed. “Well if you ask me, his run of luck is coming to an end,” he drawled in his Texan burr. “There’ll be no walking away from my bullet,” he said, prodding his own chest to emphasise his point. 

Laaine pushed on, “Doyle has been partnered with the other agent, William Andrew Phillip Bodie, for five years and according to my source they make a very tight team. ‘Bodie’ as he prefers to be known, has no close family ties. He’s dedicated to the service of his country and in particular his Commanding Officer; loyalty is one of his strong suits. He’s ex-merc, ex-army, ex-SAS so, as you’d expect, he’s a formidable survival expert, trained by the world’s best. Seen service in South Africa, Biafra, The Congo and Northern Ireland during the height of the troubles. He’s a survivor all right and apparently the calmer of the two, a stoical realist, not prone to outbursts like his partner, but don’t be fooled; light his fuse and you invite a bloodbath.”

Ferdie let out a low whistle. 

“I regret to report, however, an unfortunate accident with Bodie during his capture, a shoulder injury, but I am confident that he’ll still make a worthy opponent.” 

“So we’ve paid top dollar and you’re giving us damaged goods, eh, Laaine?” Hank challenged.

“Just remember, my friends, a wounded animal is unpredictable, especially when they have something to protect,” he replied confidently. 

“I’m reasonably satisfied,” Eva joined in, “but the proof will be in their performance.”

“Just a word of warning,” Laaine added, “these men are extremely close. I have it on good authority that they have a sort of sixth sense; an ability to predict and anticipate each other’s moves and when you combine that sort of teamwork with their training it makes them a very dangerous proposition. Do not take this challenge lightly, do not underestimate them.”

“Well, that’s what we’ve paid for, isn’t it? A bit of danger to keep the old heart ticking over! I’d be bloody disappointed if they weren’t up to it,” Ferdie countered.

Laaine knew his guests were captivated, he’d chosen well. “Any questions?”

Hank piped up, “So, you have someone inside CI5 on your payroll?”

Laaine lightly tapped his nose, “Never divulge my sources Hank, let’s just say...”

Eva interjected abruptly and four sets of eyes turned to her. “I want to see the meat on their bones. I’ve paid good money. I want to see what I get,” she said in a tone that dared them to challenge her.

Laaine shared a smirk with the others in the glow of the monitor. He reached for the microphone, seemingly amused by Eva’s prurient interest. 

“Mr Bodie, Mr Doyle, please avail yourselves of the fresh clothing. It’s much warmer kit than you are wearing and much more practical. You will find they are your correct sizes.” 

Doyle glared straight into the camera, “I suppose it's too much to ask for some privacy.”

Laaine put his mouth back to the microphone and replied blandly, “Just get on with it.”

Doyle bent down and spoke briefly to Bodie before walking over to the table where he identified his pile of neatly folded and pressed clothes. He toed off his trainers and angrily shoved his jeans to his ankles, pulling them off over his socked feet, dropping them to the floor. He wasted no time pulling on the Army issue trousers and securing them. Next he pulled his T-shirt up over his head and let it drop to the floor.

Eva wasn’t the only one to inhale sharply at the display of unsightly scars which peppered his chest; even Laaine found he was staring at what had undoubtedly been a near-fatal injury. 

“It must be rather cold in there,” Eva smirked as she ran her fingernail slowly down her throat, her gleaming eyes fixed to the screen.

Laaine ignored her seductive tone, “Dual purpose Eva, it serves to acclimatise and keeps ‘em alert.”

Doyle finished dressing in the Army fatigues complete with webbing belt, stiff new leather boots and woollen pullover. He didn’t look impressed at all but Eva seemed delighted with the performance. 

Doyle signalled his partner with a nod.

“Darkie’s up,” Eva said edging closer to the monitor, her thin lips curled in what might pass for a smile, “let’s see how damaged he really is.”

Five sets of eyes were glued to the monitor, assessing as Bodie tentatively got to his feet and walked gingerly to the table, his right arm braced against his chest. 

Eva let a satisfied wolf whistle escape as Doyle helped Bodie out of his shoes and trousers. “Look at those legs,” she gloated before Doyle could help him into the replacement khakis and boots.

Laaine began to wonder what Eva had planned for these men if she got the chance; she didn't appear self-conscious in the slightest. He’d heard disturbing stories about her sexual appetites but he wasn’t about to let that interfere; she was a paying customer after all. 

Meanwhile, the on-screen entertainment continued as Doyle began to ease Bodie's right arm out of his long sleeve polo neck top but, despite his obvious care, Bodie paled even further and was forced to lean heavily on his partner for support. Doyle spoke quietly, too softly for the observers to hear, and returned the clothing to its original position.

“No doubt they're hoping I’ll take pity on them. Well, this is no charity game, either he performs or he dies…I’m tipping it’ll be both,” Laaine gloated.

*****

Doyle was uneasy. Bodie’s injury wasn’t serious under normal circumstances but this definitely wasn’t normal. He should be in hospital not traipsing about the countryside with crazed maniacs on his tail. 

“We need to get your shoulder back in and immobilise it until we can get you checked out.”

“Forget it, no way. If you think it’s just going to pop back in after all this time you’re dreaming.”

Doyle eyed the first aid box and began to reach for it. 

“We’re not taking the first aid kit, use your nut Doyle, your T-shirt will do,” Bodie said irritably as he nodded at the discarded clothing on the floor, “there are more important things than a bloody first aid kit.”

Doyle bit back his angry response; he knew pain was driving Bodie’s temper and a blow-up now was the last thing they needed. He fashioned his t-shirt the best he could into a temporary sling, carefully easing Bodie’s injured arm into it, but it was far from suitable; the fabric was too elastic to provided support. 

“Sorry mate,” Bodie apologised as Doyle worked, “didn’t mean to bite your head off, but this isn’t going to be any picnic.”

“What…no sarnies?” Doyle said, attempting to lighten the mood. “I’m going to try something, keep your trap shut and don’t say anything.” 

Doyle made a show of rummaging through the first aid box. “No pins,” he said a little too loudly as he pushed a foil strip of analgesic tablets up his sleeve.

Clearly agitated, the South African voice filled the room, “Step back from the table, Mr Doyle. Nominate your choices before you approach the table or you’ll lose all privileges. I won’t tolerate cheating.”

“Sod off,” Doyle muttered under his breath but he wasn’t bothered by the rebuke: he had what he wanted, the pills were now safely concealed. He turned to Bodie, “So, Guru, what do you suggest we take?”

He watched as Bodie looked over the items on offer. A canvas tarp, water canteen, book of matches - not waterproof, two pair of leather gloves, small torch, compass, cooking pan, two woollen hats, supply of chocolate bars and the first aid kit. Bodie quickly made his selection, “Matches, torch, tarp and water,” he announced decisively, loud enough for Laaine to hear.

“You have a lot of faith in your partner, Mr Doyle, I hope you’re not disappointed.”

Doyle refused to be cajoled into an argument; his confidence in Bodie was no-one’s business but his own. He finished helping his partner to dress, tucking his right shirt sleeve into his waist band, reefing up his laces and tying them firmly around his ankles.

Bodie winked. “Thanks, mum.”

Doyle’s spirits lifted; it was good to have Bodie's peculiar brand of humour back, nothing could keep him down for long.

The khaki pullover was the last of the clothing. Doyle eased it over Bodie’s head and fed his left arm into the sleeve before pulling it down snugly over his right side pinning his damaged arm, trying to ignore the pained gasps that accompanied every downward tug. Doyle stepped back for an appraisal, “You look a million dollars.” 

That earned him an eye roll. 

Doyle picked up the rucksack, adjusted the straps and put the tarpaulin, matches and torch inside, exaggerating his movements for the sake of the camera. He didn’t fancy losing these few privileges if he could avoid it. He took a swig from the water canteen before handing it to Bodie who took a carefully measured mouthful and handed it back. Both had barely enough to wet their lips, definitely not enough to overcome their dehydration and the urge to guzzle was overwhelming. Doyle paused with the cap above the neck of the bottle.

“Don’t even think about it,” Bodie cautioned raising a knowing eyebrow.

His partner's ability to read him so easily was comforting, it bolstered his spirits knowing they were in this together. “Wouldn’t dream of it, mate.” 

With their street clothes exchanged for full army fatigues and their meagre supplies stowed in the rucksack, they weren’t surprised to see the door swing open again.

“Looks like we’re on,” Doyle said.

Bodie nodded as the two masked men re-entered the room. “I don’t think much of their hospitality anyhow, shall we go?” 

“With pleasure.”

The same grating voice from overhead was back, “Let’s not waste any more valuable game time, gentlemen. It’s now 11:45 a.m. I promised an hour’s head start and I am true to my word but be warned, the moment you step away from this building my stopwatch starts. Head toward the highlands, do-not-deviate. The area to the sides of this building are out of bounds and my trigger happy snipers are under strict instructions to maim, not kill if you stray. But really, chaps, I don’t want the game to be over before it’s begun so do be good sports. Remember, 48 hours to freedom, gents, good luck.” 

The armed men began herding them toward the open door but no prompting was necessary, they wanted out of this prison and as much distance as they could get between themselves and the posse. 

The door led to a solid wooden staircase poorly lit by dim side lights, just bright enough to see a few steps at a time. Four pairs of footsteps echoed in the bleakness as they climbed the stairs to the top and followed the corridor to a set of double doors at the end. As Doyle cautiously pushed them open his eyes met with Bodie's, a silent promise passing between them as they stepped, unescorted, away from the old stone building. The doors closed, separating them from their armed escorts. The hunt was on.

*****

Cowley scanned the St Paul’s crowd; Marge Harper was late and while he didn’t abide tardiness, she had him over a barrel. He needed to know what she knew and if previous dealings were anything to go by it would be worth the wait. But he wasn’t happy about being dragged away from the office at such a crucial time, especially when she could easily have delivered the information by phone; the woman was too paranoid by half. 

Idly he watched the stream of passing commuters and the hundreds of tourists swarming over the well-worn steps, keen to get the best angle of the cathedral’s dome, blissfully unaware of the city’s violent underbelly. Lavender and roses he reminded himself, his responsibility, his burden.

“George Cowley.” 

He turned, instantly recognising her brassy locks atop a bright red woollen coat, fighting her way through a tourist group and their over-enthusiastic guide. Quite oblivious, she ignored the abuse and the steely glares as she pushed her way through, Marjorie was no shrinking violet.

Moments later they stood face to face, he in his long formal coat, hat in hand, the epitome of a fine English gent and she in figure-hugging clothing, buxom and heavily made up, the effigy of a much younger woman. Cowley nodded, “Hello, Miss Harper. I don’t have much time I’m afraid, what is it that you couldn’t tell me over the telephone?”

“You can’t blame a girl for looking after her own interests; I don’t trust anyone, Mr Cowley.”

“What can you tell me about my agents?” Cowley asked, determined to keep the small talk to a minimum.

“Well, you didn’t hear it from me, of course,” she said stepping closer, pausing before she was reassured by a curt nod. “A South African, Laaine, I believe he calls himself, has found himself two British boys to be human cannon fodder in an old-fashioned hunt.”

He didn't want to believe it, he'd hoped he'd been wrong with his suspicions but now the evidence was mounting, just as he feared. "Please, do go on." 

“I’ve been talking to a contact who shall remain nameless you understand. He arranged delivery of one of those tea shop on wheels, you know the sort, they serve hot tea in those dreadful foam cups on the side of the road. Well in any case he knew it was…you know…a special order for a South African visitor.”

“Och, come on, Miss Harper, I don’t have time for your riddles, you mean he knew the van was to be used in a crime?”

She was taken aback by the rebuke, and her voice hardened, “All right George, I’m only doing this for Ray, you remember that. My man was told to hang about because the van wouldn’t be needed for long and he was to move it the minute they were done. An English chap, dark hair, the strong muscly type, was the only customer; he bought two cups of tea and a bag of hot chips and left. My man was told the job was over, get rid of the van…”

She paused.

He forced a benevolent smile, “Do go on…” he said through gritted teeth. 

“Well, his bloody motor wouldn’t start, would it? I mean I’ve told him to get the mechanic to it but do you think he listened? Anyway, he found a phone box around the corner and was waiting for his mechanic mate to turn up. That’s when he saw it…”

She paused again.

“Miss Harper, I can’t impress upon you how time critical this information is. What exactly did he see?”

"He saw the men who were working for the South African, dragging two unconscious blokes from a back alley to a nearby car. One was the tea van customer and the other bloke was slim with curly hair. Sound familiar?”

“That’s far too vague, Miss Harper, a thousand men fit that description…” 

Marjory cut him off as she dropped her hand into her ample cleavage and wrestled out a black wallet. “What’s the chance those thousand men would be carrying this?” she said with a flourish.

Cowley hesitated before reaching out and taking the familiar object. The only question was which of his top operatives did it belong to? He folded it back on itself to reveal the roguish face of Ray Doyle glaring at him. He closed his fingers tightly around the wallet, now there was no doubt. 

“George, George, are you listening?”

“Eh?” he said momentarily thrown. 

“My man George, he overheard them complaining about how cold it was going to be in the Scottish highlands.”

“Thank you, Miss Harper, I am grateful for your assistance. Please let me know if you hear anything further, my line is secure, I give you my word.”

“Just make sure you bring those two boys home, George.”

“I intend to,” he said as he placed his hat firmly on his head and jogged down the steps. He had agents to brief.

*****

Shoulder to shoulder they stood blinking in the strong light; assessing their chances as the fresh air quickly numbed their extremities. In front of them stretched a wide expanse of moorlands dotted by low vegetation and surrounded in the distance by hills. Behind the hummocks lay a rocky barren mountain range, the peak of which was shrouded in cloud. Doyle was beginning to realise the enormity of what they were facing but he wouldn’t contemplate failure, not with Bodie at his side. They’d make it out together or they’d die trying. 

“Not an antelope in sight,” he joked, which earnt him a sardonic smirk.

Intuitively both men knew they had to head for higher ground but they were being funnelled in that direction in any case under the threat of being shot before the hunt had even begun.

Doyle spun around, spying a rotor blade at the far side of the building. “Chopper,” he said before tipping his head upward, to the two armed men perched on the rooftop.

Bodie turned to share the view. “The bastard’s got every angle covered.”

“So where the hell are we?”

“Scotland, judging by the weather and the landscape. In fact, that mountain range seems familiar. Look Ray, we’ve only got an hour head start _if_ he’s true to his word and it’s probably a good hour to the base of those hills if we’re lucky. We’re sitting ducks out here.” 

“Can you run?”

“Can I run? Just watch me,” Bodie answered indignantly as he began to jog with a lopsided gait favouring his injured side.

Doyle watched him from behind for a few paces before catching him with ease. He knew that with every stride Bodie's dislocated joint would be causing unbearable pain but the truth of the matter was the alternative was a lot worse. 

*****

Laaine was pleased, months of planning had finally paid off, his UK safari was underway. It had been a gamble going offshore but he knew he’d been running close to the radar at home, suspecting authorities were closing in on him. If this hunt turned out to be as popular as he suspected it would be, he’d consider coming back although he’d have to stagger his locations to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. The biggest challenge was sourcing worthy targets and getting them to the starting gate in peak condition. These two were worthy opponents but it was a damn shame about Bodie's shoulder injury. 

Drawing back slowly on his Havana he watched the two agents ambling across the moor from the loft window, _you need to move quicker than that boys_ , he mused. Bodie’s movement was restricted, he was holding Doyle back, he’d be the first to go, easy pickings. He smirked. Doyle would be a different proposition though once Bodie was out of the equation. He’d put up a good fight; give his guests a run for their money. All that pent-up anger and rage would show itself eventually. 

Laaine contemplated the thoughts that were likely going through the doomed men’s minds - you could never really tell by looking at them. He’d seen the toughest, most capable men break down in a heap when faced with death and then been surprised when the little librarian from the slums of Pretoria shot dead a man without blinking an eye. He hadn’t seen signs of fear or anxiety in these two, but neither had he seen strength and confidence. What he had seen was resolve and loyalty and they weren't to be taken lightly. They were cocky enough… but what they didn’t know was the house never lost. He laughed callously; the money was already in the bank.

In a couple of hours he’d take the chopper up and see how the game was progressing. His money was on Ferdie, the oldest, most experienced hunter of the group but really any of them were capable of taking the prize - it was an even contest. 

He stubbed his cigar on the window ledge; it was time to rally the players: the game was on. 

*****

Doyle looked at his watch for the second time in as many minutes. They’d been on the move for half an hour but had only covered a third of the distance between their starting point and the base of the hills. They’d be dead to rights if they didn’t reach the safety of the forest before the hunting party caught up.

Bodie was doing it tough, the moorland was challenging enough without a dislocated shoulder. The uneven terrain was littered with mounds and depressions and with no path they had to make their own way through the low grasses and mossy ground cover and, to add to their woes, it was bitterly cold. 

Doyle was worried. They were falling behind but he couldn’t ask any more, even Bodie had a breaking point. They’d run in silence since they’d left the compound, alone with their thoughts and their overactive imaginations. His head was throbbing and he had no doubt Bodie was suffering, too. He was worried, dehydration could quickly turn fatal if left unchecked. He increased his stride effortlessly until he could turn and jog backwards, face to face with his partner without impeding him. He didn’t like what he saw. Pain had contorted Bodie's entire body and the lack of recognition in those glazed eyes revealed how deep he was digging. Giving up wasn’t in his vocabulary but he doubted Bodie was even aware of his surroundings; he was almost catatonic. This madness had to stop. 

“Bodie, that’s enough, time for a rest.”

He got no response and the shuffling gait continued relentlessly. 

Anxious now, Doyle shouted, beyond caring about the attention he might attract. The hunters already knew which way they were headed and he was determined to get his bloody-minded partner to stop.

“Damn you, Bodie! You need water…ease up.” 

At least this time there was a flicker of recognition and a touch of annoyance, a sign he hadn’t totally lost him, yet. 

“If I stop it will be game over,” Bodie eventually replied in a clipped voice as one foot continued to follow the other, his breathing deep and even, belying his physical condition.

“Come on, you stubborn bastard, you need water, we both do.”

“Can’t stop Ray.”

Frustrated, Doyle fell back in step beside his partner, not really surprised by his pigheadedness. 

Twenty minutes later they were still shuffling forward, tantalisingly close to the base of the hummocks where the dense forest would mercifully swallow them up, when Bodie stumbled on a rocky outcrop and fell heavily. 

“You bloody fool,” Doyle growled, anger masking his fear. Then, realising his error, his voice softened, “you all right?”

He scanned the horizon for signs of the posse while Bodie manoeuvred himself onto his back, drawing in great gulps of air as he stared up. “I’ll live.” 

Then something much closer caught Doyle’s eye and his spirits lifted.

“Looks as if you’ve found us some water,” he said, grinning like he’d won the Christmas chook raffle. “I can see a trickle coming off the hillside behind you. Wouldn’t have found it if it wasn’t for your swan dive.”

Finally Bodie’s pained expression transformed into a weak smile, “Water diviner at your service.”

“Boil it?”

"It'll take too long. It’s flowing it'll be okay. Help me up.” 

Doyle wrapped both hands around Bodie’s forearm and pulled him into a sitting position before shoving painkillers into his hand. “You look terrible.” 

Bodie took the canteen and drank deeply, washing the tablets down, before handing it back. Doyle drained the rest and re-filled it from their newly-discovered water source. 

“How’s the shoulder?”

“Just dandy,” was the sarcastic reply. “Come on Doyle, you know what’ll happen if we don’t keep moving, we’ve wasted too much time already.”

As if on cue a foghorn was heard across the moor, the noise carrying far in the still crisp air. 

“That’s our signal," Bodie announced. 

There was no arguing with that so Doyle hauled his partner to his feet and checked their bearings.

“Och, come on 3.7, a wee dram of the best single malt and a comfortable bed awaits,” Doyle joked in his best Scottish brogue as he led off at a slow jog, ensuring Bodie was able to keep up. His thoughts drifted to the man he’d mocked. Cowley would never find them out here; Christ, they were well and truly on their own. 

*****

The competitors stood at the same door the agents had departed from just an hour ago. Warmly dressed in fur-lined coats, warm headwear and gloves they could have passed for a group of tourists on holiday but for the rifles slung over their shoulders and backpacks brimming with ammunition. 

Laaine had finished briefing them and was satisfied they were primed and ready to play. There were well stocked camp sites set up at pre-arranged co-ordinates so his guests wouldn’t be left wanting. Everything was set for a cracking hunt.

At the sound of the foghorn the group moved off in the same direction as their targets had done. He suspected the competitors would remain loosely in formation until they reached the foothills where they would split up and do what they did best. There was no doubt Cowley's agents would give his clients a run for their money he only hoped he could find more of their calibre for the future; they were only good for one game, after all.

*****

Doyle kept a watchful eye on his partner as the terrain began to rise forcing their muscles and lungs to work harder to keep their momentum going.

“We’ve bloody made it,” Doyle panted, looking up at the encroaching forest.

Bodie managed a forced smile but the pinched lines around his eyes and his contorted body told the real story. 

At first the trees were sparse and spindly but as they trudged further uphill the number of trunks multiplied until they found themselves in dense undulating woodland of ash, oak and pine. The light at ground level grew dim as the canopy overhead thickened, providing desperately needed cover and patches of light and shade, just enough to confuse the eye and distort perception. Decomposing leaves and fallen branches littered the ground and the occasional rocky protrusion hidden beneath the forest carpet forced them back to a march.

Bodie came to a sudden stop, doubling over as he drew shaky breaths and pressed his one useful hand into his thigh to support his damaged side. Doyle moved closer, knowing the stubborn sod was too proud to ask for help but he wasn’t needed. 

“Stop a minute...while we work out a plan rather than...running aimlessly around...in circles,” Bodie wheezed.

“Yeah, but where?”

Bodie spun around. “Under there,” Bodie replied, pointing to a large rock protruding from the hillside. 

Doyle could see the alcove created by the overhang, “Any port in a storm.”

Bodie swept his arm toward the entrance inviting him in, “You’ll have to excuse the mess; maid’s sick.” 

Doyle rolled his eyes as he took the rucksack from his back. Both men then dropped wearily and wriggled, backside first, into the space, stooping low and grunting as they folded their legs up under their chin to fit in the small damp space. Once they’d stopped fidgeting Doyle noticed how quiet it was apart from their harsh breathing and the ever-constant bird chatter. Grateful for the safe haven, he was able to relax for the first time since they’d been set free despite the cobwebs dangling in front of his eyes and the dampness seeping through his trousers. 

They sat in silence, lowering their heart rate and mulling things over. Doyle spoke first, “What are you thinking?” 

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking; no South African bastard is going to beat me on my home soil. Look Ray, I’m pretty certain we’re in Scotland and it’s highly likely there’ll be a town on the other side of that peak, Scotland just isn’t that big. All we have to do is climb it or scout round the base.”

“All we have to do?” Doyle replied incredulously, “Jesus Christ, Bodie, it’s a bloody steep climb and you’re in no condit…”

“You just worry about yourself, mate, I’ll be right.” 

Curiously, Bodie began scraping decaying vegetation to one side with his foot before digging a small ditch in the dirt with his fingers.

“We’d need ropes for a climb like that. There’s got to be another way,” Doyle continued, exasperated with his partner’s gung-ho arrogance.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, we’ll just have to pick our route carefully,” Bodie replied while continuing to scratch about in the dirt. “Pass the canteen.”

Bodie’s confidence was contagious. Doyle couldn’t help shaking his head at his partner’s sheer egotism, maybe they could pull this off. He removed the cap from the flask and handed it to Bodie but his new-found confidence turned to confusion when Bodie poured a small measure of their precious liquid into the depression he’d created. 

“How do you feel about face painting?” 

Doyle watched in amusement as Bodie stirred the muddy mix and slapped the paste onto his skin, smearing it everywhere, leaving only his lips and eyes untouched. Damn him; anyone would think he was bloody well enjoying this. But when Bodie picked up another handful of the messy goo obviously intended for him, Doyle put his hands up in defence, “Gerrr off, I can manage meself, thanks very much. Got top grades for finger painting, I’ll have you know.”

Looking disappointed, Bodie, flicked the goo back into the puddle. Doyle scooped up the cold paste in his fingers and grimaced before tentatively wiping it across his cheeks, shivering at its icy touch.

“That’s better, now I can’t see that ugly mug of yours,” Bodie chuckled quietly, “and if I can’t neither can our friendly assassins.”

“Doubt they’ll be too friendly.”

Both men took a swig from the canteen before Doyle stowed it.

“Hear that?" Doyle turned his head to the side. “It's Laaine and he's up looking for us.”

The sound of the helicopter’s blades thumping the air became louder so they waited, safe in the overhang, until the sound gradually died away again.

A noisy gurgle rumbled from Doyle’s guts. “So what do we do for food, my travel guide? It’s been nearly twenty hours since that pub meal in Watford you know. How about the berries? There’s plenty about.” 

“Forget it, Ray, the rule of thumb is, if it walks, swims or flies it's safe, some insects are okay, arthropods are full of protein...now don’t look at me like that, would I lie to you? But unless you are one hundred per cent sure, _do not_ eat the plants, especially the red ones.”

“Oh, great, so vegetarian is off the menu?”

“Look Ray, we can survive without food for days but water, well that’s a different proposition, it's got to be our first priority.” 

“Yeah, right up there with not getting shot.”

“Well we keep moving then,” Bodie replied with a wink. “Same heading until we reach the base of the peak at which time we’ll have to decide, over or around.”

“Want me to have a go at your shoulder?” 

“Look, Ray, they’re gaining on us every minute we sit here.” 

“You know it will be instant relief if I can get it back in.”

“It’s the _if_ that bothers me." 

Doyle took the initiative, Bodie wasn’t daft but he was definitely being evasive. They both knew it had to be done. 

Working Bodie’s jumper up over his head , Doyle untied the sling, taking his partner's silent compliance as his tacit agreement. 

“Here, bite down on this,” he instructed wedging a lump of t-shirt into Bodie's mouth before manoeuvring them both into the best position given their cramped quarters. Kneeling at Bodie's back, he carefully slid his right arm under the dislocated limb and cupped his elbow, prepared to whip it upwards and in. He propped his hip against him and placed his left hand firmly on the affected shoulder. “I have to get the bone at the right angle before it will slip back in."

He could feel the nervousness in the poor bastard as he tried vainly to brace himself.

“Ready?”

“Hold…” 

A muffled scream cut short his reply as Doyle pulled his wrist up and elbow in, rotating the arm in a violent move calculated to re-seat it. Bodie slumped back against him, limp and silent. 

Doyle swore when he realised he'd failed. 

Moments later he felt life course back into his partner's motionless body. He jolted upright, labouring for breath, rocking back and forth attempting to suppress the pain.

Eventually he stilled. “Well, thank you Doctor Doyle, now that was an experience I don't want to repeat!”

Doyle held up his hands in surrender, “Sorry mate, I nearly had it.”

Ten frosty minutes later Bodie looked out past the overhang at the sky. “It's about four hours til dark and I haven't heard the chopper for a while. We need to move, if we're not under canvas before nightfall we'll be frozen to the spot and I don’t want to make it too easy for them.”

Doyle marvelled at his partner’s flippancy, helped him back into the sling and his jumper and wriggled out of the shelter. That was Bodie down to a tee: get angry, get over it and move on, no grudges. Doyle stretched his fatigued muscles, swung the rucksack onto his shoulder and resolved to get both of them out of this mess. Bodie struggled out behind him; any attempt to help would only be a hindrance so he stepped back and let him get on with it, stoic as always. 

While Bodie was finding his balance and getting his bearings, Doyle found a sturdy branch and shredded the foliage and twigs from its length with his bare hands.

“Ah, just like a bought one," Bodie beamed. "Thanks."

“You lead off, I’ll follow,” Doyle said, wanting his partner to set the pace. 

Hiking in silence and keeping their noise to a minimum, Bodie set a cracking speed using the stick for support but Doyle wondered how long he could keep going considering his shoulder injury. They'd been on the march for close on ninety minutes when Bodie suddenly halted, signalling sharply with his hand indicting he'd heard something. Doyle wondered if he’d heard the chopper but Bodie waved him forward, pointing through the foliage to a stream trickling down an embankment. With a shared thumbs up they silently changed course.

While one kept watch, the other guzzled the crystal clear mountain water before swapping. It had been a hard slog in the rough terrain and despite the cold they’d warmed up considerably. Then, without any warning, the unmistakable crack of a high-powered rifle resonated through the forest like a lightning bolt. Instinctively they plunged to the ground from where they stood.

The rifle cracked again and again, as if to remind them of their vulnerability and their own lack of firepower. They could do no more than keep their heads down and wait. Then, after a considerable silence, Doyle lifted his head, spat the grit from his mouth and scanned as far as he could see, nothing was moving. 

“Must be shooting at rabbits, getting their eye in or something because they aren’t that close…yet,” Doyle whispered. There was no reply and he immediately sensed trouble; Bodie was far too still, he was never that still, not ever. 

“Oi, 3.7,” Doyle said, desperate to get Bodie's attention, but there was still no movement in the prostrate body. 

Trying to control his rising panic he inched across the gap on his stomach to where Bodie lay. “Come on mate,” he urged as he reached his side.

Searching for signs of life, he was relieved when a pulse, strong and steady, caressed his fingertips.

“Christ.”

With effort he rolled him over, thankful he couldn't find any holes but his relief was tempered by Bodie's staring unseeing eyes. He swallowed, thrown by the sight; unconscious, not dead, he reminded himself. It was an irrational response he knew, but damn the sodding bastard for winding him up like that.

After gently drawing Bodie's eyelids down with his thumbs, he checked his airway and rolled him onto his uninjured side, constantly scanning the woods as he perched on a nearby flat rock to consider his options. Nothing sprang to mind but he was sure it was the only chance he was going to get to manipulate Bodie's shoulder. 

It had been a good ten minutes since the last shot and he decided it was now or never. Wriggling closer, he positioned himself at Bodie’s head, manoeuvring his legs under his lax upper body while he worked the right side of his jumper upwards, digging his chin into the top of his head to prevent it tipping forward and blocking his airway. He exposed the improvised sling, eliciting a groan for his trouble. 

“Just a bit longer, mate.”

Untying the sling revealed the extent of the disfigurement; how the hell had he pushed himself this damn far? His challenge was to get the shoulder re-seated before Bodie came to. He worked fast, making a second attempt to manipulate his limp arm. Much easier on an unconscious patient he acknowledged as the joint thankfully slipped into place without the interference of protesting muscles. He tested it, gently moving it this way and that. It was working alright but he knew there would be underlying damage compounded by the swelling. 

Pleased with himself, he fed Bodie’s arm through his shirt sleeve and then his jumper before re-immobilising the shoulder with the improvised sling over the top of his clothing. Drained from the effort, he rolled his partner back onto his side and wedged the rucksack at his back so he could catch his own breath. He scanned the forest for movement, anything out of place, but it had returned to what it was before the gunfire, an idyllic spot in a remote part of the world. If only, he thought.

He watched his best mate, noting in fine detail the perspiration drenching his hair, the twitch in his fingers and the paleness of his skin despite his mud disguise. There wasn’t much more he could do for him so he ambled over to the stream and refilled the canteen but movement at the edge of his vision had him spinning back. 

Bodie…upright, groggy and glassy-eyed.

“You nap at the most inconvenient times, you know.” Doyle said with great relief.

Bodie cleared his throat, “I…I don’t know what happened.”

“Gunshots, remember? You hit the deck…hard, too hard on that shoulder.”

“How long was I out?” 

Doyle looked at his watch and shrugged, “Ten, fifteen.”

Suddenly Bodie looked down at his damaged shoulder with childlike glee and proceeded to test it out, gently rolling it this way and that, wincing with the movement. “You did it, you bloody did it.”

Doyle couldn’t help grinning smugly. “You were no bloody help, slept right through it.”

“So you were paying attention in first aid classes, eh, and here I was thinking you were only there to perve on the birds,” Bodie mused, staggering to his feet. 

“Whoa, easy mate, you’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m fine, just another hour til…” but before he could finish, his legs buckled and he dropped to his knees, making a mockery of his claim. 

Doyle dropped the canteen and rushed to his side. “You’re not bloody fine! I’ve already made the decision. We’re stopping for the night,” he said, as he eased Bodie back down, his tone daring Bodie to challenge him. “I’ll go up the hill and find some high ground to camp; just tell me what to look for.”

Bodie closed his eyes and sighed, “Okay, okay. A hollow, find a hollow or a ditch and not too big because we’ll have to warm it with out own body heat, its too risky to light a fire, better to be on the small side and something with a height advantage…oh, and make sure there’s steak and chips on the menu, will you?” 

“Berk. You’re delirious, did you know that? Promise you’ll stay out of sight,” Doyle said, hardening his voice, “no matter what happens, right?”

Bodie raised his hand in the time honoured salute - “Scout’s honour, now get moving 4.5. and keep your wits about you. I need someone to get my sorry arse home.” 

Doyle acknowledged his partner’s words for what they were; a veiled thanks and a reminder not to get killed. Bodie could be a right prat at times, masking his emotions, sidestepping his past and brushing things off like they weren’t important, but for all his faults there was no-one else like him and he had no intention of letting him down. 

He headed uphill in search of a safe haven, leaving the rucksack and his partner concealed under a thick blanket of forest debris. “I’ll be back,” he promised under his breath, “whatever you do, don’t bloody move.” 

Trudging up the hill, frustrated, cold and alone with his thoughts, he was even more conscious now of the blistered skin on his heels and the gnawing hunger in his belly. Cursing Laaine and his sadistic game he vowed unholy revenge if anything happened to Bodie. How many others had suffered this inhumanity? How many deaths was this madman responsible for? 

A rocky outcrop further up the slope looked promising and had him shifting course, all the while hoping he could find his way back with the twists and turns he’d made. What he really needed was a bucket of breadcrumbs or better still a ball of string. A smile played on his lips as he imagined Bodie’s reaction to that; his partner who had probably crossed the whole African continent without so much as a compass, would never let him live it down if he got lost.

Reaching the ridge he found it was the most promising spot yet, a sheltered ditch bordered on the low side by a natural rocky wall, hidden from anyone approaching from below. Aside from the shortage of pub food, this place ticked all Bodie’s boxes.

The light was fading so he had to get moving if he had any hope of getting back here with Bodie before dark. Scanning the landscape, identifying the features he’d committed to memory, he began to backtrack but came to an abrupt stop when multiple shots sounded in quick succession, louder and closer than the previous ones. Panicked, his thoughts immediately turned to his unarmed and vulnerable partner secreted in the undergrowth.

Caution thrown to the wind, Doyle began running full tilt downhill but his reckless descent was short-lived when he tripped over an exposed tree root, tumbling as he'd been trained to do as he fell, lessening the damage. At least some of his training hadn’t been forgotten; aside from some missing skin he was unscathed. 

He sat on the forest floor, collecting his wits and brushing the debris from his knotty hair, reflecting on his stupidity: a broken leg or a cracked skull and then where would he be? Where would Bodie be? What the hell was he thinking, rushing in like a brainless wet behind the ears recruit? Exhaustion and fear had clouded his judgement. 

*****

Cowley signalled his driver who responded immediately, manoeuvring the Rover skilfully through a never-ending queue of traffic to the kerb outside St Pauls. Removing his hat, he climbed into the front passenger’s seat, barely settling in his seat before issuing instructions.

“Ministry of Defence, Sally, quick as you can.”

He picked up the mic, “Alpha One to base.”

“Come in Alpha One.”

“I need the A squad in the briefing room at 1500 hours, no exceptions. Tell them to bring an overnight bag and warm clothes, they’ll need them.”

“Roger that, Alpha One, over and out.”

Sally had scarcely come to a stop opposite the building that housed the Military Operations Centre when Cowley exited the car, wove his way through the gridlocked vehicles and took the front steps of the building two at a time. 

Barely fifteen minutes later he was back at street level, darting across the crowded footpath to the car, a white tube firmly in his grasp.

“Maps?” Sally asked.

Out of breath, he took a moment to compose himself, “Highly classified military topographical maps to be precise.”

“Base, Sir?”

“Base,” he replied, pushing his glasses up his nose, his agile mind already formulating a plan.

*****

Doyle picked himself up and moved forward cautiously, expertly managing the placement of every step, avoiding brittle twigs while he scanned the landscape ahead. He stopped often and observed constantly, melding into the forest like the highly-trained agent he was. It felt good to be back in control. 

He swung wide of Bodie’s last known position and paused, focusing on the spot he’d left him, buoyed when he couldn’t see him in the undergrowth. There was a good chance the shooter couldn’t see him either. 

But it wasn’t long before the next burst of rounds peppered the woods, only this time he got a valuable bead on the source, barely ten yards away. The rifle was pointed in Bodie’s direction but the trajectory was high. “Stay down Bodie, stay down,” he muttered as if he could communicate telepathically.

Doyle caught a glimpse of the coward behind the scope, _You’re mine, you bastard,_

The shooter's barrel swept across a 90 degree arc as the trigger on the automatic weapon was depressed, mowing down branches and splintering bark from the trunks of trees in a deafening cacophony of sound, leaving the odour of cordite residue hanging in the air. It was as if the shooter knew his target lay ahead but couldn’t pinpoint his target's location.

Doyle decided he was going to take possession of that rifle or die trying; it was their ticket out of this mess and it was a risk he had to take. He inched his way further downhill on the same heading until he’d passed the shooter’s position, psyching himself, knowing the only thing he had was the element of surprise and his fists.

As he crept closer he could see the hunter more clearly, mid-40’s, tanned, muscular and tall with it, a man mountain crouched behind a fallen pine which provided cover and support for his rifle. The man was calmly reloading.

Doyle’s heart hammered and his muscles tensed as the shooter rammed the freshly loaded magazine home, moved his finger to the trigger and put his eye back to the scope. No time for self doubt now. 

It was futile wishing he was nearer, a slight adjustment down on his trajectory and Bodie would be directly in the line of fire so drawing strength from a surge of adrenaline, Doyle lunged. The shooter’s reflexes were good, too good. He spun on his haunches swinging the rifle toward the threat but Doyle was quicker, knocking the weapon from his grasp with his powerful attack. Not to be discouraged though, the shooter drew a knife in a slick motion from a scabbard strapped to his thigh, preventing Doyle from diving on the abandoned rifle. They came together, Doyle grasping the solid wrist with both hands, holding on with all his strength, his attention focused on the blade. He pressed his thumbs hard into the sinews, forcing them apart, eliciting a cry as the knife fell and embedded itself in the soft forest floor. Now weaponless, they embraced in hand to hand combat; rolling back and forth across the damp earth, each desperately trying to get the upper hand, confident in the knowledge that only one man would walk away from the contest.

The shooter was stronger and heavier but less agile, if only he could get back on his feet Doyle knew he’d have a chance. Any moment now the hunter would get his hands free and in his weakened state it would be game over. Blood rushed in his ears and his muscles burned, trembling with the unrelenting effort, then, when he thought he had no more in reserve, he managed to wrap his ankle around the hunter’s lower leg. An explosive twist from his very core reversed their positions and he was now glaring down into the eyes of the man who was stalking them. Doyle knew he was spent, knew the hunter knew it too. His grip wavered and the shooter pried one hand free, pressing his enormous thumb deep into the pressure point on Doyle’s neck, quickly starving his brain of conscious thought. His senses grew muffled and he was vaguely aware of being flipped like a rag doll onto his back as a huge weight descended.

A hallucination loomed over the shooter's shoulder, a black and white Bodie, animated, yelling soundlessly, a surreal vision to accompany him into oblivion but by then he was beyond coherent thought.

An unidentified time later the pressure on his neck eased and blood rushed to his brain, bringing him groggily back. Colour and sound were still absent but his eyes weren’t lying, a gun barrel was pressed up against the hunter's head.

More muffled sounds followed by the crushing weight being lifted from his chest. A sudden flurry of activity, a muted explosion and a bright flash scrambled his thoughts. Then, the most welcome sight, Bodie’s puckered brow inches from his own. 

Still confused, he clutched at the hand reaching down and let himself be hauled up, taking in the gruesome scene as he was righted. 

He met his partner’s gaze with a heartfelt thanks.

Bodie brushed off the sentimentality, “You okay?”

“Will be,” he croaked, massaging his throat, “I told you not to move. What do you think you were playing at, you great clown?”

“Saving your sorry arse,” Bodie teased. “Perhaps I misread the situation and you didn’t really need my help?”

“Yeah, well, you’re looking much better anyway.” Doyle grinned changing the subject, knowing that without his partner’s timely intervention he’d be a trophy by now. “What have we got here?” he added, nodding at the rifle. 

Bodie handed over the Heckler&Koch, “Plenty of ammo with it too.”

Doyle whistled, as he checked the sights. “They won’t see this beauty coming.”

Bodie tipped his head at the dead man, “He didn’t. Time to turn the tables, I think,” he said, as he rummaged through the shooter’s bag before his voice hardened, “Ray, take a look at this.”

Bodie held up a tracking device.

“The cheating bastard, “Doyle growled. “What chance did we have?”

“It explains how he found us so damn quickly.”

They both stared at the blinking target, fixed at the site where Bodie had hidden.

Doyle snapped his fingers, “The rucksack, he knew where you were all a long.”

“It’s back there,” Bodie replied, nodding to where he’d been concealed. “When I saw that you and muscles here weren’t hitting it off...” he said, drifting off tactfully.

They gathered the shooter’s bag and weapons, dragged his body into a ditch, covered it with forest debris and returned to the spot where the rucksack lay. Doyle upended it, scowling as he peeled a tiny transmitter from the inside lining.

“Damn cheating bastard,” he said as he held the bug up for Bodie to see before putting it on a rock and crushing it beneath his heel. They watched the red blip disappear from the small monitor.

“Oldest trick in the book and we fell for it,” Bodie scowled.

“Don’t be too critical; we didn’t exactly have time to check it out, did we?” Doyle glanced up at the darkening sky. “On a brighter note, I found our accommodation for tonight, fifteen minutes up the hill, we can check this lot out once we've check in.” He gave Bodie an encouraging smile, if only it were that easy. “Let’s get cracking, I feel a little bit exposed right now.” 

Doyle swung the rucksack onto his back, freeing his hands for their most valuable asset, the rifle, while Bodie carried the shooter’s heavy bag with his good arm. 

“How’s the shoulder?”

“Not too bad, as long as I don’t jar it.” 

Doyle surprised himself, finding the rocky outcrop easily despite the failing light, but fatigue and the bitter cold were beginning to eclipse his adrenaline rush and he began to shiver.

Bodie shook his head as he sized up the hollow. “That’s a fail, Doyle!” His expression was deadly serious with a tone to match.

Doyle snapped back, “What do you mean?”

“No steak and chips…I’m fading away,” Bodie replied, grinning madly, unable to keep up the pretence. 

“You great pillock, forget your stomach and let’s get this shelter built.”

“But when I’m dead from starvation…”

Doyle shook his head, exasperated, “So tell me what to do?”

“Okay, okay, tarp across the top; pull it tight; anchor it with rocks each side and cover the lot with camouflage; then we’re done.”

“That easy?”

“That easy, old son.” 

Together they unpacked the tarpaulin and dragged it across the depression, securing each side with heavy rocks and, despite the fading light and the bitter cold, they performed like a well-oiled team. Bodie could be an irritating prat at times but Doyle knew when the chips were down he would be there, patient as a saint and forgiving to a fault. It didn’t take long to gather enough debris to disguise the canvas, just long enough to put things in perspective and to realise that while they were both still breathing they had a very real chance. 

He stood back appreciating the simplicity, “Nice.”

“I’ve spent many nights in one of these glorified hotels,” Bodie replied, “it'll do.”

Doyle snagged his hand in his curls as he tried to run his fingers through them, “It’s going to be pretty cosy, no shower in…how long?” 

Bodie wrinkled his nose, “Not worried about your virtue are you, Sunshine?” 

“Not likely, I’m more worried about bloody hypothermia.”

“Feet first,” Bodie instructed, “stand aside.” He got to his knees then onto his stomach and proceeded to wriggle backwards into the shallow space, grunting with the effort of keeping his injured shoulder clear of the ground. Once settled, Doyle passed the bags and the rifle in before manoeuvring himself into their makeshift accommodation. 

It was cosy all right, barely a few inches between them but the cold and damp were already seeping through and Doyle knew they’d be grateful for each other’s body heat through the night. In the last few minutes what little light there was had disappeared and it was too dark to see the nose on Bodie's face. 

Doyle handled the weapon expertly; he could do it blindfolded which was damn useful considering he had no hope of seeing what he was doing. He positioned the rifle on his right side, safety off, primed for action in the event of an early morning ambush although he considered it unlikely figuring the hunters for wealthy aristocrats, all mod cons no, doubt; probably tucked up in a warm bed with a full belly somewhere. At least he hoped that’s where they were because they'd both be in the land of nod soon enough. Neither were capable of keeping watch throughout the night as the events of the day had taken their toll but he knew they’d both sleep with one eye open.

“I’m going to crack out the torch so we can see what’s in the bag, any objections?” Doyle asked.

“Be my guest,” Bodie replied.

The torch light was dull and, despite Doyle’s vigorous shaking, it remained a dismal glow. “Bloody great.”

“We’ve been duped,” Bodie complained, “I bet the cheating bastards knew. We should have tested it.”

“Yeah and what do you think they would have done, eh? Given us fresh batteries and sent us on our way?” 

Bodie grabbed the torch, “Well, it's still giving off some light.”

Doyle dragged the heavy shooter’s bag up between them and unzipped it, removing the ammo boxes and stacking them on his right side in an orderly fashion while Bodie directed the torch light.

“Come on, get a wriggle on, it’s giving up the ghost.”

“Just hold on, I might need this ammo in a hurry…in the dark, so just give me a minute.” 

Bodie’s patience was at an end, he could wait no longer, thrusting the torch into the centre of the bag he rummaged about until moments later he whooped quietly, “Bingo!” 

“What’ve you got?” Doyle asked curious now, hindered by the lack of light as Bodie held the torch under his chin, illuminating his face like a mischievous school boy. His enthusiasm was contagious and Doyle’s mood lifted despite not knowing what had causing the unexpected excitement.

“Chocolate, lorry loads!” 

Doyle chuckled, how amazing that something so ordinary could elicit such joy in extraordinary circumstances. Not even a naked stacked woman would get that response from Bodie at this point.

Minutes later, having set some rations aside and divvied up the rest, they were both gorging themselves on fruit and nut chocolate delicacies. Even though he didn't have a sweet tooth, Doyle, couldn’t remember anything tasting so good and he could tell by the groans of pleasure from the other side of their makeshift accommodation that he wasn’t alone. A shared water canteen later and both men were dead to the world. 

*****

Cowley arrived with his agents at RAF Henlow, Bedfordshire at dawn having departedfrom the CI5 armoury in darkness. The guard at the gate, impressive in his starched uniform and polished boots, had been expecting them and with a notation on his clipboard and a check of Cowley’s identity, the boom gate was raised. 

“Just follow the yellow markings on the tarmac to area B where Flight Lieutenant McCaffrey is waiting for you. Major.” 

The corporal snapped to attention and waved them through. The brisk air was punctuated by the sound of commands yelled at the cadet corps on early morning drill but Cowley took no notice, his focus was elsewhere. 

They pulled up at the edge of the airfield where six Gazelle helicopters in their camouflage skins stood motionless, all but one with the blades secured. 

“Grab your kit and make it snappy,” Cowley barked, his lack of sleep making him irritable.

His men gathered their supplies and walked swiftly to the only manned helicopter, weapons slung over their shoulders, looking more like seasoned hunters than CI5 agents, their regular garb exchanged for clothing more suited to a wilderness expedition. The pilot strapped himself in, flicking the overhead switches, setting the blades in motion. 

Cowley approached the aircraft with a knot in his stomach. Was he doing the right thing putting so much trust in Marg and her dubious acquaintance? He was gambling with his agents’ lives but he reconciled himself with the fact that he had nothing more promising and besides, his intuition was shouting at him to follow this path. 

He climbed in alongside the pilot and spread the map across his lap as the blades gathered momentum.

“Flight Lieutenant Jim McCaffery, sir.” 

“Major Cowley.” 

They clasped hands firmly. 

“I understand this is a rescue mission sir.”

“I hope so, Lieutenant, but I’m missing some key information, how well do you know Scotland lad?”

“Very well as chance would have it, I’ve spent the last six months flying troops in and out.”

Cowley continued to study the map as both men donned headsets. He briefed McCaffery, discussed their projected course and identified the areas most suited to this crazy man’s needs. 

It had to be somewhere isolated, somewhere the public was unlikely to go which meant somewhere with no vehicle access and somewhere the landscape would prove challenging to experienced hunters. During the early hours of the morning when he couldn’t sleep, he’d narrowed it down to half a dozen possible locations but their immediate destination was RAF Buchan, near Peterhead. Here they’d refuel and set up a command post where he could coordinate the Scottish resources he’d been promised. A search on this scale was far bigger than CI5 could manage. 

He folded the map but kept it close while McCaffrey lifted the aircraft from the tarmac, banked steeply and set a course for Buchan.

*****

Doyle woke with a start, alert and instantly missing the warmth of his partner. Not the most comfortable sleep he’d ever had but exhaustion had won out and the hard ground went unnoticed…until now. He stretched tentatively, mindful of his stiff muscles and technicolour welts. Rubbing his sleep-addled eyes he felt around for the canteen to soothe his irritated throat. 

Where the hell was Bodie? 

He peered out at the navy sky and the icy crystals blanketing the forest. It was almost dawn. Taking a moment to appreciate the beauty and peacefulness, he gently probed his tender throat but memories of the hunter’s size ten hands choking the life out of him quickly brought him back to reality. Unexpected activity outside the hide cut short his contemplation, stilling his hands at his throat while he listened. Footsteps crunched on the frosty ground sending his pulse sky rocketing.

Bodie?

Rolling onto his stomach he peered out but his view was restricted to just a few feet in the immediate foreground. Brushing his matted hair from his eyes he waited, heart thumping and the hair on the back of his neck prickling. Silently he raised the rifle, wrapped the strap firmly around his forearm and pointed it outward but not so that it protruded from the hide. Moments later a pair of army boots passed just inches away. His breathing slowed and his grip tightened in readiness. 

The boots looked remarkably like the ones he and Bodie were wearing but if it was Bodie, why was he just standing there? What the hell was he playing at? 

He didn’t have long to wait before another pair, light tan, entered his field of view paralleling the footfalls of the first. Both wore Army trousers tucked into their boots and were moving slowly in an arc, in sync with each other. They stopped, toes pointing toward the entrance of the hide.

Doyle's heart beat was loud in is ears. 

“I suggest you show yourself, Doyle, if you don’t want to see your mate knee-capped or gut-shot. I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out…a man with your experience...” The voice trailed off and Doyle had no doubt what the bastard intended. An American bastard at that, Texan, judging by the accent.

Bloody nanny goat Bodie. This was the second nutter he’d flushed out and this one wasn’t going to be satisfied with just one scalp, which is the only reason the stupid sod was still breathing. He had visions of his partner, crippled by non-fatal wounds, live bait to draw him out. Jesus Christ. Giving himself up wouldn’t be enough to save Bodie, it would only serve to sign both their death warrants and give the hunter the two scalps he craved. Barring a miracle, his partner was a dead man and he wouldn’t see him suffer, he owed him that. He’d finish it himself… if he had to. In that brief moment he convinced himself he had the strength to do the unthinkable. How the hell had it come to this? 

Overwhelmed at the thought of a mercy kill, he struggled to keep his emotions in check. It won’t come to that, he wouldn't let it, there has to be another way.

Both pair of boots were close, so close that the men wearing them must be pressed together, facing the same direction, shuffling through 360 degrees. It was then that Doyle realised the hunter didn’t know his whereabouts; he was pivoting, searching for him with his hostage in tow. If the gunman didn’t know he was armed, it might just be the edge he needed. 

After a brief pause the Texan continued his one-sided conversation, a little louder this time as his anxiety escalated. “There are two ways this can go, my friend, it’s just a matter of how easy or hard you want to play it.”

“Doyle, don’t...”

A agonising shout abruptly ended Bodie’s communication. Doyle’s anger flared but he pushed it aside as the Texan continued, “If you cooperate I’ll be considerate. I’m experienced and I promise it will be painless, that’s the best I can offer.”

Doyle’s silent response was barely contained fury.

Eventually the two men shuffled downhill a way and as they did Doyle’s view of them increased until he could see both, head to toe. The Texan was all over Bodie like an octopus, one arm tightly wrapped around his neck pulling him in close as he jammed a revolver up under his chin. Doyle recognised that dour expression; jaw clamped tight and narrowed eyes projecting malicious thoughts. Bodie’s fuse was damn short. 

_Just don't do anything stupid._

To his credit, not once did Bodie look in the direction of the hide, not even a glance to confirm his partner was there, covering him. Doyle raised the sights but with Bodie's familiar face in the centre of the cross hairs he was absolutely helpless, the Texan held all the aces.

“I know you’re here, Doyle! Never far apart I hear…last chance before I start turning your pal into Swiss cheese.”

Then, as the knife edge thinned, a distraction, an exchange between captor and captive that caused them to shuffle together through 180 degrees, the Texan unwittingly exposing his unprotected back to Doyle. Bodie had clearly orchestrated the move but they were now only slightly better off. 

Doyle cursed, his shot would likely take out both friend and foe. The high powered round would effortlessly pass through two human bodies pressed together; the reality of which wouldn’t be lost on Bodie. He’d be well aware of his precarious position.

Shoot Bodie to save him? Jesus Christ, it was only marginally better than a mercy killing. As the seconds ticked over he wracked his brain for a solution but none were forthcoming.

The Texan pulled the hammer back, slid his finger deeper into the trigger guard and squared the revolver against his partner’s head, “Say your prayers, sonny.”

The time for debating was over. Doyle swiftly dragged the cross hairs from the back of the hunter’s head to the centre of his upper body and without giving himself time to reconsider, spontaneously pulled the trigger.

The shot split the fresh crisp air and both men crumpled.

The rifle dropped from Doyle’s hands like a red hot poker. 

“Saved me the trouble.”

Stunned by the absurdity, Doyle found he was looking straight into the mouth of an assault rifle just feet away held steady in the grip of a woman whose piercing eyes and hard mouth left him in no doubt about her intention. He’d been distracted, let his guard down and now he’d pay the price. 

“Hands where I can see ‘em,” she motioned with her rifle, signalling him to move. He understood well enough. She wanted him out of his shelter where she could take a clear shot but he was having difficulty, his legs had become rubbery and uncooperative partly because he’d been in a confined space for a good number of hours but more so for fear of what he’d done. 

He moved stiffly, stalling and steeling himself for the moment he got clear. She had no reason to keep him alive and if he’d killed Bodie…well, at least he wouldn’t have to live with it. Resigned, he took his eyes off her weapon, no longer fearing the bullet and trained them on the two men lying face down, one on top of the other. Neither had moved since his fateful decision.

Numbly he returned his gaze to the woman, his executioner, but incredibly she sported a manic smirk and a devious glint in her eye. “Drop your trousers, bokkie.” 

He stood unmoved, open-mouthed. 

“Come on! I haven’t got all day,” she barked. “There are others out there, not far away. All I want is a few precious minutes alone, either of you would have done but you've just made my choice for me.” 

Doyle still didn’t react, his mind trying to process her demand.

She adjusted her aim and spat two quick rounds into the ground at his feet before calmly lifting the barrel back to his chest. “Not asking again.”

Survival mode kicked in and he unbuckled his belt, unzipped his trousers and dropped them to his ankles, a crude but effective shackle he realised.

She took one hand off her weapon and reached into her pocket producing a pair of shiny handcuffs which landed at his feet. “Put one on and turn around slowly, hands at your back.”

Doyle knew the bracelets were his last chance but even if he could create a diversion he was unlikely to dodge the inevitable rounds that would spew forth once she recovered. His own rifle inside the hide was just feet away, but those few feet might as well be a hundred for all the good it would do him.

He squatted, hindered by his trousers; it was going to be damn hard to move with any speed but it was now or never. Covertly he collected a handful of dirt with the cuffs and as he straightened he used his explosive strength to hurl the mixture of metal and debris at her face. 

She cried out and he didn’t hesitate, hitting the forest floor on his side, arms wrapped protectively around his head and knees drawn up to his chest as the assault rifle played its violent tune. Then, among the cacophony of noise, a different sound, a sharper, louder report.

The woman fell heavily to the ground, her killing machine silent. Stunned, he realised the last hunter must have waded into the fracas, so desperate to win they were prepared to kill each other. 

He lifted his eyes to the grisly sight a yard away, her eyes wide and lips moving as if she had something meaningful to impart while blood, bright with oxygen, stained her teeth and dribbled down her chin. Devoid of his usual compassion, Doyle braced himself and turned to face the shooter, but to his utter shock it was his partner propped on his elbow, a picture of concentration with the Texan’s revolver in his fist. Doyle took a shaky breath, not quite trusting his sight. 

A moment later, with his wits summarily gathered, he rolled onto his back, dug his heels into the dirt and arched his back, reefing his trousers up to their rightful place, barely able to believe Bodie was alive.

Trapped beneath the bloodstained corpse, Bodie had collapsed back to the forest floor. Doyle rushed to his side in a few sharp paces viciously rolling the Texan’s lifeless body away to discover blood staining both bodies, he only hoped none of it was English.

Gently, he prodded every inch of Bodie's back before carefully rolling him over and repeating the exercise, “Bodie mate?”

“You shot me,” he croaked accusingly, his eyes still closed.

“Where? Where are you hurt?” 

“Give me a minute,” Bodie replied clearing his throat, sounding stronger.

“Can’t find any wounds,” Doyle said, both relieved and confused as he tried to peel the revolver out of Bodie’s cast-iron grip. “You can let go now.” 

“Felt like a cannonball, knocked the wind out of me, couldn’t breathe.”

The cause of Bodie’s remarkable escape became clear when he examined the Texan and pulled a deformed whisky flask, with the remains of the word _Hank_ engraved across it in his breast pocket. Incredibly the flask had deflected the bullet back into the body through which it’d come. 

It's got to be karma, Doyle mused, “It’s a bloody miracle.”

He held the dented flask aloft for Bodie to see. “How lucky are you? I think the Cow’s had a word in the ear of the man upstairs; someone’s looking after you." 

“That’ll be you, mate, no divine intervention here.”

Doyle beamed, he couldn’t believe how lucky they’d been. He removed a small blood stained box of rounds from the Texan’s jacket and tucked it into his pocket before nodding in the direction of the woman, “Should be nicknaming you Annie.” 

Bodie looked confused. “Annie?”

“As in Oakley, you prat. That was a damn good shot from under a corpse with your left, a coconut for the man.” 

“Well there was a high degree of difficulty,” Bodie replied smugly. “But I don’t think she wanted to kill you, well, not straightaway, she had other plans for you...lover boy." 

Doyle grimaced, suspecting that was the case. “So tell me, how did the Texan end up with his pistol up your left nostril?”

“Ah, well, had to pee, didn’t I? Nature called and I didn’t think you’d appreciate waking up in a warm puddle.”

“Charming.” He grasped Bodie’s good arm and hauled him unsteadily to his feet. 

“A bit wobbly there, sunshine.” 

Bodie rolled his eyes, “Well, it’s not every day you get shot…by your damn partner.”

“You’ll live,” Doyle replied ridiculously happy as he guided Bodie to a fallen tree. “Sit down and let's have a look at you.” 

Bodie did as he was instructed as Doyle pulled his shirt from the back of his trousers, hissing as the extent of the bruising was revealed. “I can see the imprint of the flask already and in a few hours I’ll be able to read the bloody inscription!”

“That impressive?”

Doyle examined the soft tissue damage, grateful his partner was still in one piece - it could so easily have been a different story.

“Impressive isn’t the word for it.”

“Can’t be as pretty as your throat.”

Doyle touched the bruised skin around his throat, “S’not a competition.” 

Bodie crooked an eyebrow, “Yeah, well, we are both still alive and by my calculations there’s only one contestant left. That makes it CI5 three, posse none.”

“Don’t go getting too bloody cocky, we’ve still got targets on our backs remember and Laaine’s not going to cut us loose, is he?”

“I wouldn’t bet my life on it…or yours”, Bodie replied thoughtfully.

“So what do you suggest?”

“It's time to stop running, set a trap, lure the last one in and finish it. Then we’ll show Laaine and the twins a thing or two.”

“I’m in.” 

“I suggest we move these corpses,” Bodie added, “don’t fancy giving the last clown advance warning of what we’ve been up to. It’d make him jittery if he knew we were armed.”

“Might not be a him, you know, might be another kamikaze bird.”

Bodie nodded and gazed at the woman’s cooling body. “How the hell did a woman get caught up in this racket?”

The ominous sound of a helicopter circling in the distance had Doyle on edge as he ripped a full magazine from the woman's belt and rammed it into the rifle which he had claimed.

Bodie was right, if they were laying a trap they didn’t want to spook the target so while he remained vigilant, rifle at the ready Bodie dragged the corpses with his one good arm unceremoniously into the undergrowth, covering them the best he could and scuffing the leaf litter to conceal the bloodied scene. Doyle would have preferred to swap roles but Bodie couldn’t manage the rifle with one arm. 

Manhandling the corpses was dirty work but Bodie took it in his stride, coldly detached, performing the grisly task without complaint. He washed his hand with their precious water but there was little he could do about the Texan’s blood smeared over his clothing. 

Doyle worried his bottom lip as he watched Bodie toil. He really should be checked after being walloped in the back with the force of a ten-tonne lorry. He’d seen it before, a police colleague, grateful for his ballistic vest at the time of the shooting, died twelve hours later from an undetected internal haemorrhage. He studied Bodie closely. What the hell could he do if he suddenly collapsed? The frightening truth was he’d be absolutely helpless.

Leaving behind little evidence of the bloodbath, they began hiking downhill, searching for a suitable spot to lay their trap. Doyle carried the dead woman's rucksack and the rifle hopeful the bag would be worth the effort while Bodie concentrated on the forest ahead, picking the best path forward, scanning constantly for danger. Doyle kept watch to the rear, alert for signs of ambush, both vigilant to the possibility of being spotted from the air. Their nerves were strung taut.

Without distracting chatter, Doyle’s mind drifted to the likelihood of rescue, they were alone in this godforsaken place and feelings of isolation began invading his thoughts. There’d be no cavalry charging over the hill this time and he wondered how much he had left in his tank. Three of the four hunters were dead but they couldn’t afford to ease up no matter how exhausted they were. Once they’d dealt with the last competitor there was still Laaine and his men to face and, sod it, they’d be fresh. 

He stole a fleeting look at his partner’s profile as they marched in the cold crisp air, Bodie's frosty breath marking his heart rate. The camouflage mud had just about worn off leaving a thin film of dirt and grime which had settled into the lines of his face, clinging to his unshaven jaw and giving him the look of a wild desperate man. Not far wrong Doyle assessed and judging by his stilted gait, his back was giving him merry hell. He admired the way he could push through the pain with his head held high, lips firmly compressed and eyes every wary. Bodie was at home in this environment and if he harboured any doubts he certainly didn’t show it. 

Sunlight was beginning to filter through the trees, turning the frost into dew. The breeze was picking up and the shafts of light sparkled with the lighter than air pollen and forest dust that was carried on the currents. A hundred yards ahead was a clearing of low bracken, grasses and ample light, about the size of a football pitch. Bodie slowed, cautiously approaching on high alert. He turned to Doyle and nodded, signalling his preferred route. Doyle changed direction to follow, trusting his partner’s assessment. 

The area had apparently been active years ago. A small wooden construction at the far edge of the open space looked like it had once provided shelter but was now a collapsed skeleton of its former self, accommodating nesting birds in it's joints. Behind that was an old structure built into in the hillside, a wooden frame which formed an entrance to a dark cavern.

“It's an old mine,” Doyle whispered. 

Bodie nodded, “Might be a trap though, we'll hang back, give it a while, eh? It might be a little too convenient.”

Doyle quietly placed this load on the ground and stood back to back with Bodie, scanning the area until they were satisfied it was safe.

Suddenly rattled, they dropped to their knees as a static radio transmission broke the silence. Bodie pounced on the bag at their feet and ploughed through it until he produced a CB radio from its depths. Doyle quickly flicked the switch to silence it. The agents exchanged fleeting glances, their initial panic turning to elation as the ramifications of having a radio began to sink in. 

*****

Laaine sat infront of the radio transmitter, strumming his fingers on the table as he gazed out the window, frustration quickly turning to agitation, his percolated coffee untouched. This morning Eva and Hank failed to check in. Were they just being cagey, keeping their location a secret? He wondered for a brief minute if they’d teamed up but then just as quickly discarded the notion, the Texan was far too greedy and the woman too selfish. They couldn’t work together if their lives depended on it.

There’d been no contact from Jack either but that was expected, considering he’d refused the offer of a handset, convinced he’d be back with two scalps before nightfall. He didn’t want to carry the extra weight but it seems his optimism was a little premature. 

Massaging his forehead, Laaine considered the possibilities: fully-armed, experienced hunters up against unarmed, under-prepared men who had nothing to rely on but their own wits? He didn’t want to believe his predators had become the prey. He hadn’t lost a competitor yet but he had to face reality, maybe this was the safari that would change that. It wouldn’t do his reputation much good to lose paying guests, though. He flung his coffee cup against the wall, the china shattered and the liquid splashed down the wall. What the hell was going on out there? He stood quickly, knocking the chair to the floor, his fingers flexing with anger but moments later he’d regained his self-control and righted the seat. 

On a positive note, good old Ferdie had reported in, so he knew he had at least one viable contestant still in the game and anyway, what was the problem? He was still in control, still had the tracker showing their position, so what if he lost some guests? They knew the risks, they’d been warned so more fool them. 

Everything was quickly back in perspective. After breakfast he’d get the chopper up and scout the hunting ground for his missing competitors. If they were still alive the infra-red would pick up their heat signature and, if it was necessary, his own men could finish the game, they had plenty of experience shooting from the air. In fact, he knew they’d relish the opportunity, there was nothing better than live target practise. Cowley's agents were dead either way; the devices secreted in the soles of their boots hadn’t missed a beat. 

He smirked. If there were no guests left to claim the prize, he’d be forced to keep the jackpot himself. Not great for business but his profits would double. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a disaster after all.

*****

Doyle scanned the woods from his crouched position. “You're right” he said softly and Bodie set off, their awareness and trust in each other as sharp as ever. 

Bodie crept around the edge of the clearing, scanning for threats as he made his way to the mine entrance. Once there, he signalled Doyle who followed the same path. 

“What do you think?” Doyle asked, squinting into the darkness. “Looks bloody orrible.”

Bodie peered in. “Safer in than out.” 

“Wish I had your confidence mate." 

Bodie winked “Right, after you my son, age before beauty."

Doyle arched his brow but moved forward anyway, his weapon aimed into the abyss. “Something lives in here and it stinks.”

“Not scared of the dark are you Doyle?” Bodie teased as he followed his partner in, lugging the dead woman's rucksack with him.

They stopped only a few yards in where they settled themselves on the uneven cavern floor. As their eyes adjusted and their sight improved they turned their attention to the provisions in the bag, discovering a treasure trove of supplies as well as the two-way radio. A folded map, water flask, snack food, boxes of ammunition and spare magazines were all neatly arranged.

“She came prepared,” Bodie observed.

“Yeah, for World War III,” Doyle said irritably. “Bloody sadistic bitch.”

Bodie grinned holding a handcuff key aloft. “Prepared for you more like it."

Doyle snorted. “The only good taste she had, mate.”

“Oh, I dunno, can’t see you giving her a good time, myself.”

“Well, that’s alright, can’t see me receiving one either.”

“She wasn’t what I’d call a good sort."

“Oh, I don’t know, seen you with worse,” Doyle smiled.

“Oi, you casting dispersion's, people who live in glass houses and all that.”

The conversation dropped off as they eagerly shared the food and drink she had unwittingly provided while they worked out their next move. 

Bodie unfolded the small dog-eared map and leaned closer to the light, his brow furrowed, but before long a roguish smile transformed his serious expression. “It’s been cut down but I was bloody right, Ray,” he said as he ran his finger lightly across the paper. “Queen Elizabeth Forest, we’re in Scotland. Judging by these markings, I’d say this is where we were held. We moved north from there, roughly followed this stream to here where we camped just below this ridge.”

Doyle watched mesmerised as Bodie retraced their path across the map.

“Then we’ve come back down the valley in a southeast direction to here,” he stabbed his finger onto the paper, “where the mine is marked, here.” 

Doyle was impressed, “How the hell did you work all that out?” 

“Stars and topography, my son, been making mental notes,” Bodie replied, lightly tapping his temple. 

“Remind me never to play hide and seek with you.”

Bodie examined the handset. “Standard Motorola; the trick will be avoiding Laaine on the damn thing.” 

“I'll use the emergency band, it will be monitored by the authorities,” Doyle replied hopefully as he activated the radio and adjusted the frequency. He spoke quietly into the microphone. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, anyone receiving?”

A tense few seconds of static filled the mine shaft before he tried again. “Urgent assistance, Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.” 

Then, just when it seemed no-one was listening, the sound of an irritable, uniquely Scottish voice was heard over the airwaves, “Aberfoyle Constabulary receiving; please state the nature of your emergency.”

Doyle beamed; at least it wasn't a South African voice, a bloody good start.

He depressed the talk button again, “We're two British agents being hunted by armed assassins in Queen Elizabeth Forest, need backup urgently, over.”

There was a slight pause before the voice came back with a hint of a smile behind it.

“Been watching a few too many spy movies have we, sir? I must warn you this frequency is controlled by the Home Office and is for genuine emergencies only. You are directed to cease using this frequency forthwith.”

Doyle bit firmly on his lower lip, his face flushed with anger. “Damn you, this is a genuine emergency! We are CI5 agents, call signs 4.5 and 3.7. Contact CI5 HQ London immediately, Major George Cowley. He will verify. This is not a joke. I repeat, this is not a joke.”

“Stand by.”

Doyle glared incredulously at his partner who rather than sharing his ire seemed to be taking it all in his stride, the daft sod even seemed amused.

Doyle stewed, “The stupid bloody pompous plod, how dare he presume it’s a hoax.” 

Ten minutes later the radio crackled into life and the same Scottish voice was back sounding much more alert this time.

“Aberfoyle to agents Bodie and Doyle, are you receiving?”

With a self-satisfied smirk, Doyle knew their identification had been verified, “Of course we’re here, not going anywhere, are we?”

“How many armed offenders are there?”

“Exact number unknown, possibly four remaining.”

“Injuries?”

Doyle looked to Bodie who shook his head, “Negative Aberfoyle, nothing too serious but we do require urgent assistance.”

“Do you know your location?”

Bodie piped up, “An old mine shaft, approximately 8.2 miles south east of the northern most trig point; coordinates; 259er north, easting’s unknown, map is incomplete, received?”

“Received. You'll have to hold on, gents; we'll get help to you but it’s going to take time. We can’t get a vehicle in so we’ll be coming on foot. In exactly one hour we’ll touch base again, save your battery, have yo…”

The flock of birds on the structure in the clearing abruptly took flight, a warning they had company. They cut the transmission immediately. Doyle ditched the radio and replaced it with his rifle, rising to one knee as his partner drew the revolver from his waist band and aimed it in the direction of the disturbance.

Bodie, slightly closer to the light, was in Doyle’s peripheral vision and after a few agonising minutes tiny tremors began in his outstretched arm. Doyle knew how heavy the weapon would be without his other hand to support it but typically he stayed on target. 

Then, without warning, a deafening spray of bullets peppered the mine’s interior, bombarding the space with high velocity shells spearing into the dirt, ricocheting dangerously and splintering wooden pit props. Doyle pressed himself hard up against the wall and returned fire, confident his partner was doing the same. The exchange ebbed and flowed with more rounds entering the mine than leaving while they attempted to conserve ammunition. During a brief lull, as the dust and cordite settled, Bodie took the opportunity to reload. Doyle noticed how slow and awkward he was, pushing the precious rounds into the cylinder one at a time with the weapon propped between his knees. He couldn’t help but appreciate his tenacity.

“Ready for round two?” Bodie asked with a casual wink. 

Another violent burst of gunfire entered the cavern and they both flattened themselves back against the walls sheltering behind the beams that gave the shaft its strength. Pockmarks of dirt spurted from the ground where they had just been resting, tracing over the corner of the woman's rucksack, abandoned with its precious ammunition as they'd thrown themselves out of harm’s way. They both looked at it, sitting out of reach in no-man's land and then at each other. Bodie raised a brow and Doyle rolled his eyes. One of them had to risk their position of dubious safety to retrieve it. 

"I suppose paper, rock and scissors is out," Bodie called above the noise of the gunfire. Doyle flashed him a quick grin but acknowledged he was in the better position.

The shooting abruptly stopped. 

Doyle glanced across at his partner who shrugged as he dumped the empty casings from the cylinder with one strike of the pin. He returned the shrug, puzzled by the sudden silence, not a good sign. 

The ammunition lay temptingly close, just feet away and a quick check of his magazine confirmed he was nearly out. Slowly, deliberate in his movement, he took advantage of the temporary ceasefire and stretched his leg out into the danger zone, hooking his foot around the strap of the rucksack, dragging it towards him until it was close enough to pick it up. 

"Knew those long legs would come in useful," his partner remarked as Doyle tossed him a small box of .45 calibre rounds. 

It was deathly quiet now, so quite Doyle could hear his wristwatch ticking away like a doomsday clock. The mood in the shaft was tense. What were their options? Did the tunnel rise to the surface at some point further along or did it just go deeper in the earth like a tomb? He decided it must be the latter; it was as black as Hades behind them. 

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the wait was over. 

A flash of movement at the mouth of the shaft coincided with an egg-shaped object being hurled. It flew past Doyle and thwacked onto the floor behind him. It only took a split second to identify the threat and yell the warning, “GRENADE!”

Caution was immediately tossed aside as the instinctive need to escape took over. Ignoring the danger outside, he spun towards the exit and the beckoning light, Bodie a blur to his left. He knew he was running, muscles contracting and expanding, chest heaving, gasping dust-laden air, yet he felt sluggish, his forward momentum agonisingly slow despite the terrifying urgency, his total awareness locked solely on the unexploded grenade in the rubble behind him. Time skewed dramatically, slowed down, he wasn’t going to make it... he couldn’t possibly. The concussion knocked him flying and in that split second between darkness and flashing brilliant light, he knew he’d fallen short, grateful only that Bodie had been ahead of him.

The ferocity of the impact forced the air from his lungs as a cauldron of fire engulfed him and in that moment hellish visions invaded his tenuous grip on consciousness. He inhaled desperately but the oxygen had been consumed, leaving him stranded like a fish out of water gasping for life. Shards of splintered timber and a mix of dirt and rubble rained down and the sinister smell of smoke permeated his dazed brain. 

“Get out,” he screamed, but his voice was small. 

Smoke filled the shaft as the shower of debris became heavier and wooden beams crashed down: the mine was imploding and if he didn’t move he’d be buried alive. Ignoring the danger outside he clawed his way forward desperate to escape the inferno. Blinking through the dust and smoke, he emerged into the light on hands and knees, blackened and deafened by the blast.

Movement caught his eye, his partner was already out, rising to his feet like a phoenix through the smoke haze, his expression determined, focused and typically Bodie.

_Thank Christ._

But his relief was short lived as he followed Bodie's gaze to the man poised twenty yards out, a rifle nestled in his shoulder. The hunter was shouting something. What was he bloody saying? The muffled echoes of the blast dominated all sound, like being underwater, eerie and echoing, but silent. Doyle put his hand to his ear and felt a warm slickness on his fingers but he didn’t need his hearing to know the game was up.

An unexpected wind whipped up from nowhere, blowing the wild grass flat and lashing the trees, his knotted curls whipping his face. For a brief minute he glanced abstractly about, confused, eyes full of grit, limiting his vision, but movement from the hunter had his focus snapped back again. The man seemed oblivious to the sudden wind, he smiled cruelly. 

The weapon cannoned into his shoulder, recoiling, the act of firing unmistakable. Doyle was stricken, incapable of hearing the shot or even his own agonised cry as Bodie dropped like a stone. 

The shooter re shouldered the weapon and adjusted his aim and Doyle found himself caught like a rabbit in the spotlight with nowhere to run but he’d be dammed if he was going to take it on hands and knees. 

He climbed unsteadily to his feet, his balance shot to pieces, wordlessly daring his enemy to look him in the eye as he pulled the trigger. Time stretched and the wind whipped, his death imminent. Then, with a mixture of disbelief and euphoria, he saw the shooter jerk. Blood sprayed, two holes neatly punctuating the khaki vest at chest level and he toppled. The rifle fell from his nerveless fingers, the smug expression wiped permanently from his face. 

Inexplicably Doyle’s eyes were drawn skyward. It took a moment for his addled brain to process but when it did he realised a helicopter hovered silently above the tree tops, tossing up leaves, which once liberated, danced in the updraft. Shielding his watering eyes he looked up into the open door of the craft. Murphy was leaning out with a sniper rifle trained on the collapsed shooter. Anson, Benny and Jax were there too, scanning the area with their weapons but he was drawn to Cowley’s familiar face, his expression grim as he surveyed the scene from above. Doyle was shocked: it wasn’t a sight he’d expected to see, not here, not now, not ever again.

He slowly sank back to his knees, overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion, spearing nose first to the ground, hands pointing to his feet as the darkness swallowed him.

*****

Cowley stared down at the battle ground where three men lay dead or dying. He checked his handgun and reholstered it, satisfied there was a round in the chamber and the safety was off. Swallowing and dampening his emotions, he spoke with his customary control into the headset, “Take us down.”

McCaffery turned and Cowley confirmed his instruction with a hand signal.

The blades whipped everything at ground level into a frenzy, dirt and debris formed eddies and clothing on the unresponsive figures flapped furiously. As the skids touched down Cowley tapped Anson on the shoulder and pointed to Bodie’s prostrate form. His agent nodded. He directed Murphy to the hunter and Jax to Doyle. Benny was to remain with the aircraft.

Cowley knew he wasn’t the only one anxious to know the fate of their fellow agents, his men were worried too. Bodie and Doyle were more like family than work colleagues and they never got used to losing one of their own. He fervently hoped their dash north hadn’t been in vain.

His agents jumped clear of the cabin, weapons primed as they ran bent at the waist in the direction of their charges. Cowley was last out, taking the first aid supplies as he left the aircraft.

“Watch our backs,” he yelled to Benny.

Anson had already reached 3.7 and was kneeling at his side, impatiently waving the first aid supplies over. As Cowley strode over he glanced at Murphy who drew a line across his throat signalling the hunter was dead. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath.

Anson was already administering first aid to an unconscious Bodie, pressing his weight down on a leg wound. “Shot clean through,” he announced. Cowley could see his agent had lost a lot of blood, evident by the large pool beneath him and the pastiness of his skin. The wound wouldn’t kill him but the blood loss and shock certainly could so stopping the bleed was a priority. He opened two sterile dressings and pushed them over the entry and exit wounds as Anson removed the pressure momentarily. Between them they bandaged the leg firmly securing the dressing in place over the top of his trousers. With the wound taken care of and the bleeding slowed, Cowley scanned the rest of him. Stubble masked his face and it was evident he’d not washed for days; one arm was bound in a homemade sling and his clothes were covered in dry blood and filth. “He’s fought the good fight, done it hard too, any other damage, ribs?”

Anson continued his examination, carefully rolling his work mate’s limp body onto his side. Cowley shook his head as Bodie’s back was exposed, revealing a significantly large purple bruise.

“Jesus Christ, what in God’s name happened here?” Anson asked.

“Cowards,” Cowley scowled, thumping his fist into his hand, and then, as an afterthought, “and less of the blasphemy, lad.” He placed his hand on Bodie’s forehead, feeling for heat before moving his fingers to his pulse. Bodie groaned and his eyes fluttered but thankfully he remained oblivious.

“Get him to the aircraft, now,” he barked as he waved Murphy over. He closed the first aid box and quickly made his way to where Jax was examining the other half of the team. Setting the box down, he studied Doyle’s exhausted face and bruised throat. He was gaunt, his cheek bones were more prominent than usual, his hair was matted and singed and, like his partner, he was in need of a good bath.

“Well, out with it, man, what’s his condition?”

“No obvious wounds but he’s bleeding from the ears, caught in the explosion and concussed with it,” Jax replied as he nodded in the direction of the mine which was still billowing smoke. 

Cowley ran his hand through his hair, “I’ll not be surprised.”

“He’s going to wake up with a monumental headache,” Jax elaborated.

“Quite,” Cowley answered, as he saw Murphy and Anson lifting Bodie into the chopper. He spoke into his two-way radio.

“Alpha one to Aberfoyle.”

“Aberfoyle send.”

“Have an ambulance on standby. I have two agents requiring emergency medical attention, one concussed, the other with multiple injuries including a gunshot wound. He’s lost a lot of blood, check with CI5 HQ for his blood type.”

“Roger that Alpha One, onto it.”

“Additionally I need a team of investigators to our location. Three of my agents will remain here to guard the scene until your team arrives. Over.”

“Received Alpha One. We have a squad already on the way.”

“Alpha One over and out.”

A hacking cough had Cowley whipping his attention back. He watched as Jax slid his arm beneath Doyle’s shoulders and helped him sit up making his breathing easier. The trickle of blood from his ears had stopped and his cough was beginning to ease. But dazed and unsure, Doyle lifted a shaky hand to his head. Then, in a flood of panic, he spun to where Bodie had been, eyes wide, gasping at the pain the sudden movement caused.

“Easy 4.5, you’re safe now. Bodie’s alive, he’s lost a lot of blood but he’s alive.” Cowley said in an effort to reassure him.

Doyle didn’t respond.

“He can’t hear you, sir. I’d say his eardrums are blown.”

Cowley cursed, “Yes, of course.”

Forcing a smile, he placed a comforting hand on Doyle’s shoulder to calm him but there was little relief in his agent’s face.

Murphy joined them at Doyle’s side, “How is he?”

“Concussion,” Cowley replied.

“Can you walk?” Jax asked slowly. Doyle pressed his hand to his head, his nod barely perceptible.

To get Doyle's full attention Murphy squatted face to face with him, “Bodie’s alive,” he said, enunciating slowly.

Doyle closed his eyes as if in silent prayer, his shoulders slumping as the tension ebbed out of him.

Jax and Murphy hauled him to his feet, each wrapping their own arm firmly around his waist. They draped Doyle's arms around their shoulders and carried him to the chopper. Cowley followed, scanning the forest for signs of trouble. He wouldn’t relax until they were airborne. It was unnerving feeling not knowing if they were being observed.

As Doyle entered the aircraft, his eyes focused on his partner lying semi-conscious on the chopper floor with Anson fussing over him. “He’s doing okay Ray," Anson told Doyle.

“He can’t hear you,” Jax replied, pointing to his own ears, “ruptured eardrums.”

For all his bad habits, including a liking for noxious cigars, Anson was surprisingly competent in first aid. Cowley let him examine Doyle without protest. Taking hold of his chin, he gently turned his head this way and that. “Ears look nasty; pupils slow to respond; definitely concussed.”

Doyle stayed focused on Bodie during the impromptu examination forcing Anson to wave his hand in front of his face to get his attention. He pointed to Bodie and gave the thumbs up. Doyle replied with a feeble smile and proceeded to slide to the floor alongside his partner. Anson gave Murphy, Jax and Benny a snappy salute and slid the door closed leaving them grounded.

Cowley donned the headphones and spoke to his pilot, “Let’s get these men home, Lieutenant.”

The chopper lifted off and banked to clear the trees. Cowley rested his head back against the functional metal seat in the main cabin taking a deep breath as he closed his eyes, finally able to relax now that his agents were returned in one piece. But despite the mental torment and sleep deprivation, he couldn’t afford to unwind for long. Twenty precious minutes was all he’d have before they reached the airfield where there were briefings to be given and an investigation to run. Completely drained, he wondered how much longer he could keep going but one look at the two courageous men at his feet and he knew that he could push on. Their loyalty was beyond question, his own discomfort did not compare, they deserved his loyalty in return. A feeling of pride overwhelmed him; very few men could have survived what they had but his musings were interrupted by a voice in his headset.

“Aberfoyle to Alpha One.”

“Alpha One send.”

“Our ground team came across an old logger’s cabin on the southern boundary of the forest. Three men were disturbed there less than an hour ago. This is where your men were held, Major.”

“What evidence is there to support that?”

“There was a diesel generator running, fresh food, high-tech video surveillance and heavy duty security on the windows and doors. Our men located a cache of weapons and video images of your agents in detention here in the basement, over.”

“Received. Are these men in custody?”

“Negative Major, there was an exchange of gunfire, they escaped in a helicopter. There was little our men could do. Our rifles and handguns were no match for their automatic weapons”

Cowley covered the mic, “Damn,” he said exchanging frustrated glances with Anson.

“Roger Aberfoyle, alert the coast guard and civil aviation.”

“It’s been done, Major, but I think we’ve lost them, there’s been no sightings since they took off.”

“Roger, received, out.”

Cowley removed his glasses and dropped his head into his hands massaging his red-rimmed eyes, his exhaustion was becoming untenable by the minute. He felt every one of his fifty-eight years. It was a bitter blow.

Bodie's breathless voice had him alert in seconds, “Laaine…South African…king pin…evil twins.”

“Eh?”

“We killed the others…did alright me and Doyle…kill or be killed.”

“How many Bodie? How many dead?”

A sudden spasm had him doubling over, “Couple…blokes and a bird,” he managed to get out before he slumped back, the effort too much. Cowley regarded Anson who shook his head.

“He’s had enough, sir.”

“Och, I’ll get their reports when they’re able to string more than a few words together. Laaine will keep but who the devil are the evil twins?” Anson shrugged.

The helicopter banked steeply, and McCaffery pointed to the ground. Cowley saw the airfield, the waiting ambulance and assembled officers. The activity reassured him and he bent forward slightly ruffling Bodie’s hair.

“It’s over lads, you’re safe,” he said, not knowing whether either man was in any state to hear him. Well Doyle certainly wasn’t and he reached down and gently squeezed the man’s shoulder instead, smiling at the thought of his operative’s reaction when he told them that Marge Harper was instrumental in their rescue. No point trying to tell them now, particularly in view of their condition. He decided to save that little pearl for later, when they were both recovered. And they would, he knew. They were strong men, the pair of them, they hadn’t come this far on faith alone and he knew they wouldn’t give up now. He’d chosen well. Trained them well, too, but it was more than their training that had them surviving an ordeal he was only just now beginning to comprehend. It was their ability to adapt, endure, and survive. And CI5 needed men like this, Britain needed men like this. 

He shook his head bemused. How ironic that these same skills, which had attracted this sadistic greedy man, was also responsible for saving them.

Mindful of the injuries of his passengers, McCaffery touched down gently just as men began to converge, crouching awkwardly to stay beneath the still spinning blades, the ambulance men in the lead.

He spoke into his headset, “Nice flying Lieutenant, a first-rate job.” 

His first priority was getting his men to hospital, then he could get on with alerting various authorities as to the nature of this man “Laanie.” The rotors slowed and the door slid open with a sudden blast of cold wind.

George Cowley adjusted his jacket, straightened his tie and prepared to carry on. This Laaine fellow didn’t quite understand what a can of worms he’d opened when he decided to tangle with CI5.  
*****


End file.
